Affliction
by amyblair
Summary: Set after 'Head of a Pin'. The brothers are spinning in different directions, not sure where either stands. An unexpected hunt returns them to an old familiar place from their past, bringing up forgotten emotions, mixed with their current state of minds.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **You know the drill. I don't own them. Have no rights. Get no money. I only get the pleasure. And, oh, the pleasure I get.

**A/N:** This takes place after _Head of a Pin_. This story also takes place in flashbacks during three different time frames when the boys and John stayed in a bar that is also used as the backdrop for the current story setting. I have never really written John before so it is new for me.

Since we are dealing with many emotions, anger, and booze, the chapters are all titles of drinking songs.

Also, I felt this is a bit of a heavy fic and so I have divided my usual chapter length in half so the reader wouldn't feel so overloaded.

Most of it is already written and I think it will be a total of 12-ish chapters. I have ten written thus far.

**Thanks:** To my Masta-Beta, **MAZ 101**. You keep my on my feet and my commas in the proper spots.

**Affliction**

**Chapter One: Whisky Bent and Hell Bound**

_March, 1985_

They stood across from each other, taking in the familiar surroundings of their life. Neon lights, flashing beer logos – some with letters missing. A worn wood floor, sawdust gracing the top – proof of a decent night. An old jukebox, flipping '45's on its turntable – currently stuck on B.B. King. A pool table in the corner, sticks and cues in disarray – all smeared with blue chalk from grubby fingertips.

One man lit a cigarette and inhaled quietly. He leaned across the bar and looked at his brother, sitting on the barstool. The cushion was ripped out and he couldn't help but smile as he watched the younger man tug at the yellowed stuffing falling out. His fingers keeping rhythm to B.B. plucking on Lucille's strings.

_The thrill is gone baby/The thrill is gone away from me_

"Don't pick at that," the one behind the bar grouched to the other. The blondish bangs stuck to his forehead as he shook his head.

The other man didn't flinch. Just kept picking.

"Jeff…"

The fingers stopped. Jeff let out a deep sigh and blew his long brown hair out of his face. He looked up across the counter and watched the other man take a couple of drags off his Camel. He waited.

"I could be somewhere better right now," he muttered.

His brother pushed away from the counter. His black t-shirt sporting _This is Spinal Tap_ was stained with numerous alcohols, drippings from finger-foods and sweat. His eyes blinked vacantly at the closed door.

"What are we doing?"

"Waiting."

Jeff smirked. "I can see that, shit-head. I mean, what are we waiting for?"

"Not a what. A who."

There was another sigh released and the younger man smiled. It wasn't in frustration. It was a sweet smile. Understanding and tired. "Ben-"

"Don't trust your big brother anymore?"

A hand went up in protest. "No, no. It's not that. It's just-" Jeff looked over his shoulder at the large clock on the wall. _Stroh's_ was proudly gracing the background. "It's after three a.m."

Ben took a long drag this time, the glow of the burn almost reaching its end. "Got someplace better to be?"

"Well…" He stopped. His eyes revealed the lonely truth that his mouth didn't. Just a cold bed. And Ben knew he would stay because he had asked him to. He hadn't asked him for anything is a long, long time.

"I was just thinking about Valentina." Jeff hinted. "She'll be waiting up for you."

"She's not waiting up tonight." Ben paused, feeling eyes landing on him. "Got her some medication. Seems to be working. Or, I don't know, at least it's letting her sleep."

Jeff nodded. "God, I hope this is the magic pill."

"You and me both, brother."

"She say anything else to you?"

A quick glance and then back to the door, watching. "About what?"

"You know what."

There was a long pause where Ben just held the cigarette to his lips, not inhaling, just holding and he almost smiled. "It's not real, Jeff. None of it is real." He placed two fingers next to his skull and thumped it hard. "It's all in her head."

"Ramona and Angel… they're doing okay?"

The older brother shrugged. "Sure they are. They're kids. I hired Jen Ryan to stay with them at night. You know, for now. Until Val's on her feet. Then she can… try again."

"Try what?"

"To be a good mother."

He felt Jeff staring at him. Blinking questions that he wouldn't ask. He stamped his used cigarette butt out in the full ashtray and shoved it away, silent curses blowing out of his mouth along with the smoke.

"She's been scaring me." Ben's words floated out into the air, over the music playing and hit Jeff off balance.

Jeff followed his brother's eyes to the door. "Oh, God, is she coming over here now?" His voice elevated an octave and he pushed off the sad chair.

"Calm down. She's not coming here. I told you, she's sleeping."

"Who're we waiting for then?"

"Just some guy."

The flick of the lighter brought Jeff's gaze back to his brother as he lit another cigarette.

"You've seen her," Ben took a quick puff. "I'm just… I'm just trying to keep my family together, okay?" Green eyes skimmed over once and then back again. "I don't know what else to do."

Jeff was nodding. The older brother could always count on him. Didn't matter if it was to stay and clean up the bar. Or borrow money. Or keep a secret. He could count on him.

And so Jeff was nodding. "Anything I can do-"

"I know."

"I'm always here."

"Thanks."

"Not going anywhere."

There was a rumble from outside. A distinct motor. A car coming to a stop, idling and the ignition being turned off.

"Think he's here." Ben stamped his cigarette out.

Jeff walked across the distance of the bar to the door and looked out the window. "Funky-ass car. Big, black old Chevy. Got mud all over it." Jeff glanced back at his brother. "Who is it?"

"I told you," Ben answered. "A guy." He could see movement from outside the big picture window.

The groan of car doors sounded left and right and The Guy was turning around and walking towards the building. He was tall and rugged and Ben felt something churn inside. He got the impression that he was not one to be messed with.

He could see the realization dawn on Jeff's face. "A hunter?" He backed away from the window. "Ben, that's a goddamn hunter."

"He's sick."

"Who is he?"

Ben lifted a shoulder up and down. "I don't know. Never met him."

"You never…" His brother's voice trailed off as he stole another glance through the glass as the man approached the door. He looked huge in the black of the night, bulky and threatening and like he could take on two men with his hands tied behind his back. "He looks like Andre the Giant."

The front door to the bar was warped with scrapes and scuffs from brawls broken up and a few holes where heads had quickly diverted fists. It always stuck, always scratched across the bottom of the floor, always tried to fight back as someone was trying to get it. But this time, that old door opened smoothly, almost gracefully as The Guy they had been waiting for engulfed the area with his presence.

He pushed on easily, standing tall in the center of the bar, his body all wrapped in a black coat and smelling of oil and grease. His hair was dark, his eyes were darker. He looked old and young, even though he was probably just a little older than Ben.

The stranger nodded once at the man behind the counter. "Ben?" His voice was from the throat, a burn like whiskey but velvet like Sauvignon.

Ben nodded. "Yeah. Caleb called. Said you'd be rollin' in tonight."

"Caleb?" Jeff called over. His voice sharp. Accusing. "When'd you talk to Caleb?"

One shot of Ben's green eyes, though and his brother shut his mouth.

He diverted his attention back to their guest. "Caleb said you needed a place to crash."

"That's right."

Ben watched him. He stood absolutely still, his hands were on the inside of his coat, apparently wrapped around his middle. Ben's eyes fell down to the salt-loaded shotgun behind the counter. He hadn't left his position – his post – just in case Caleb was sending him a troublemaker. He'd had to use his old sawed-off too many times before to shoo away guests that were Whiskey bent and Hell bound. Staring at this man staring back at him though, Ben wasn't sure exactly what to expect. He was dark but he held a light about him and that just made him too complex to trust. He felt a cool bead of sweat roll down his temple. He was missing something.

"What's your name?"

The Guy smiled and he instantly looked younger, probably in his early thirties. His eyes wrinkled at the corners and his cheeks revealed hidden deep-lined dimples. "John. Winchester." He said it like he had never been more proud of anything else in his entire life.

The older brother felt his body ease then and he nodded, his bangs still stuck to his forehead. "My name's Ben Timmons. This is Jeff."

John nodded once to the speaker and again to the watcher. "Caleb said you were brothers."

"Right," Ben continued.

"And your parents…"

"Were hunters. Well, our dad was. But he… got out of it. Owned a junkyard for a while. Now I guess I do. That shit hole and this one." He stopped, realizing that he was rambling about information that wasn't being asked from him in the first place.

John nodded again, his eyes shifting quickly around the room.

_Checking for another exit_, Ben thought. _Wondering where our salt lines are…_

"They're both dead."

John's eyes fixed back on Ben. He took in a deep breath and then let it out. No apologies or condolences. Just the look. And it said more than any "I'm sorry" ever had.

Ben noticed the man readjusted his arms and seemed to grab at his waist. Then he remembered. "Caleb said you'd need a coupla days to hole up. Said you're sick or something."

"Yeah," John shifted. "Well, actually, my kid is."

"Your kid?" Ben's eyes narrowed.

John dropped the coat off his left shoulder, letting it fall to the dirty floor below. There, tucked high against his left chest was a six-year-old child and near his right, he held a toddler.

"Holy shit," Ben breathed.

"He's not a giant," Jeff gasped. "His arms are full of babies."

The brothers moved fast. Jeff had offered his own arms in exchange for one of the youngsters, but John had refused. "I got it," he responded. Then the brothers scattered like mice around the bar, grabbing things they thought the small family might need: glasses for water, extra towels for hot foreheads, a bottle of aspirin, and a puke bucket.

Jeff made a gagging sound when he looked inside the bucket. No, not a good choice for a kid. He looked up and grabbed a silver-mixing bowl.

Ben waved his arms through the air, trying to clear the room of the fresh and musty smoke that was captured there, moving back and forth like low-lying clouds. "Sorry," he mumbled, but the hunter didn't say anything back.

Jeff was taking his supplies to the back of the bar, motioning John to follow him. They walked down a narrow hallway, a bathroom was off to the left, another door was off to the right, but Jeff kept going straight to the end of the corridor where he opened yet another door and flipped on a light switch.

The backroom was small and dark, even with the glow from above. There was only one twin size bed, it's blankets showing signs that it hadn't been used for a while. The walls were covered in dark paneling, with one small window in the corner, blinds drawn closed, a black filthy film covering them. There was a three-drawer chest, a card table with two folding chairs and a tiny, private bathroom off to the right.

It was exactly what John thought it would be.

Ben stepped in, following the men from the hallway. "Sometimes I let guys stay here… when they've had too much to drink." He swallowed hard. "Sorry it's… small."

John smiled. "It'll be just fine." He eased the older child onto the bed. It was the first time the brothers were able to see that it was a boy, dark blonde hair, freckles galore. The small body rolled over to his side as his father readjusted him in the bed, tugging the covers out from under him and pulling them up to his shoulders.

He then smoothed out the surface next to the older boy and removed the extra pillow. He pulled back the baby blanket that had been draped over the other child. Another boy. Older than the brothers expected, though. Not much of a baby any more. They watched as the man settled the smaller body next to the bigger one and covered him back up with the baby blanket.

Then John's eyes rested on the floor. "You guys don't happen to have a couple extra covers by chance?"

Jeff shuffled quietly to the meager dresser. He pulled out two thinning blankets. Thread count long past their life cycle. "Sorry, man," he whispered, "it's all we got."

John graciously took the small bundle from him. "It's enough."

"Are they both sick?" Ben asked.

The young father shook his head. "No. Just the baby. Got a pretty high fever."

Jeff handed over the bottle of aspirin and John stifled a chuckle. "It's okay. I have what he needs."

Ben started to exit and then stopped. "You want a… a quick drink first?" He ticked his head to the left and John's eyes traveled on through the door and down the hallway. Back into the open bar. Into another time.

John's eyes cast down to the sleeping bodies in the warm bed. A smile ghosted his face for a quick second. Ben wondered what was going through the man's mind. Stories of the past. His firsts in life. His lasts. Jobs he'd held. Reasons for leaving. Reasons for starting. The feel of his favorite gun in his hand. His favorite girl in his arms. Wherever she was. Left or Lost.

Ben knew that for hunters the story always ended the same.

John looked back at the brothers, standing in the doorway. "Think I'll have to pass this time, guys."

"Yeah. Okay." Ben smiled. "Maybe tomorrow."

John waited by the door, a pillow clutched in his hand. "Maybe."

Ben took one more glance at the sweet babies and for a few heartbeats he felt sorry for the guy. "If you double up the blanket, it'll be more comfortable on the floor," he said helpfully.

The guy was still smiling. "I'll manage."

And the door shut quietly leaving the two brothers staring at one another in the quiet hallway.

"Going home?" Jeff asked, his eyes holding more, but choosing less.

Ben sighed. The house. The kids. Valentina. His favorite girl in his arms. "Yeah."

The bed behind the door creaked as he started to turn away. Ben could hear a young father hushing a small child and the boy asking a sleepy question.

"No, Dean. There are no monsters under the bed."

And Ben followed Jeff away from the door and through the bar.

-0-

_March, 2009_

Dean watched as the streetlights passed by over the windshield. One chased the other in a stationary game none of them would win.

He was counting. Counting the minutes ticking on his watch, the minutes passing by just as fast as those damned streetlights. It was slowly aggravating him. He tried not to watch the second hand spin, tried to keep his mind on other things happening around him. That was the big fucking problem, though. It was just him and Sam and the loneliness of the still highway. So there wasn't much else to do but count. And wait.

He yawned heavily. He felt his jaw click shut and the water quickly come and go to his eyes. He needed sleep. Well, his body needed sleep. Craved it, actually. But Dean wasn't ready to relinquish the reins. He'd been behind the wheel for hours now, driving from Iowa, headed east and wasn't in the mood to stop. He already had rolled the window partway down, drank enough coffee for three days, turned the radio up a notch, and then up again. He sang Jim and Jimi and even a little Mick at the top of his lungs until his voice started to turn raw.

Yep, he'd done everything he could do to keep himself awake. Everything except talk to his riding companion.

That was also something he wasn't ready to relinquish either, though. His eyes slid across the seat to his brother sitting next to him.

Sam wasn't sleeping. He'd spent the past few hours with a flashlight and a map, tracing roads with his eyes. Then he'd exchange the map out for different books. Books Dean hadn't seen before, but he wasn't going to ask about them. Sam would just say he got them from Bobby, which could very well be the truth. But Dean wouldn't believe him even if it was.

He had finally shut the light off and was now just sitting. His head was turned, his eyes stared drearily out the window. His reflection in the glass staring back at both of them.

Dean wondered what his brother was thinking about. He wondered when Sam was going to open his mouth and let it all fall out between them. He hoped his heart could bare it. Hoped his instincts could handle it. Hoped he could accept it.

Trouble was, he never really did have a lot of faith in hope.

"Are we just planning on driving 'til dawn?"

Dean rolled his shoulders once. His head titled to the left and then the right. "Maybe."

A sigh.

Dean smiled. It was petty. Still felt good to get under his brother's skin, though.

"I'm tired, man."

He saw Sam's head turn out of his periphery. Decided a shrug may be the way to go with this one. "Backseat's plenty warm."

Sam's eyes rolled to look at the darkness of the back of the Impala and then back to his brother. "Well, there's not plenty of room for me. And I'm tired of sleeping back there."

Dean pressed his lips tightly together. He held still for a long moment and waited as the sudden heat in his face cooled. It wasn't the words. It wasn't the request. It was the person. He knew Sam felt it, too. He was just better at pushing it down, back into whatever vault Sam was keeping his secrets locked away in.

"What do you want to do?"

Sam made a gesture that Dean didn't see and couldn't make out, but it was followed by a sound that he hadn't made since he was a kid. He was getting impatient. Finally after a deep breath, Sam answered him, very controlled, "Mo. Tel."

A smile smirked across Dean's face. He wanted to pull off onto the side of the road and take his foot and kick his brother out the door. Tell him to go take a hike. Call up that bitch Ruby and catch a ride with her on her flying broomstick. Knowing Sam, though that's probably exactly what he wanted, too.

_You're holding me back._

Even in his anger, Dean knew when to pull back. It was the second the road curved and everything started to skid and crash together with his swerving fear. And that wasn't something he was ready to lose control of yet either.

_I'm a better hunter than you are._

So he released a stale breath and thought about it. "Well, we're in Ohio."

Sam's head turned in his direction. Okay, conversation. "So I've noticed."

"We're low on money."

That silenced the car for a minute. Hard times fell hard on everyone right now. Even demon fighters. They had to conserve their money. They had to watch the credit card spending. It was getting harder and harder to obtain good aliases with good credit these days. They had both agreed it would be best to reserve what they had for the bigger jobs down the road. Working for angels didn't pay much in the way of cash.

No, they wanted something much bigger than hundred dollar bills in return for their dirty work.

"Yeah, I've noticed that, too," Sam quietly spoke up, but didn't have anything to offer.

Dean's eyes narrowed. He turned his head slightly and came dangerously close to actually _looking_ at Sam. "Hey, how far's Chesterhill?"

Sam's face pinched into a fast frown. "Chesterhill?"

"Yeah." Dean looked back to the road, watching the streetlights speed up as his foot found a way to release his energy. He reached next to his hip and tossed the used map back across the seat.

Sam caught it in his right hand and fisted the map into a crumpled mess.

"Can't be too far," Dean quipped.

"Dean-"

"What an hour? A half hour?" He waited and listened as Sam shifted in his seat. He could feel his brother turn to him every so often, his mouth opening and closing and then swallowing the unspoken words back down his throat.

Then the map was being smoothed out and the flashlight was being turned back on.

Dean looked out to the driver's side window and grinned. Still had the upper hand.

"It's about forty miles away." Sam wrinkled the map again and threw it behind his shoulder.

"To the north, right?" He already knew.

Sam gave a quick nod and bit his bottom lip, giving it one more try. He pushed his back up against the passenger door, turned and looked over to his brother. "Hey, Dean…"

But his brother was done talking. The decision was made and he wasn't turning to look at him. Dean kept his eyes straight a head, his hand reaching for the volume on the radio. He turned it up and started strumming his fingers on the steering wheel, growling out how he drank alone right along with George Thorogood.

Sam scratched at his head and rotated around on the seat. He looked away, too. Dean caught his brother watching the night outside speed by in a blur of dark trees and bushes. He thought he saw Sam's hand resting on the door handle for a few seconds and wondered if his brother was contemplating rolling out of the moving car. If he survived, he could just spend the night in a hospital.

Dean figured he'd probably have a better time there anyway.

He let his gaze wander back to the black hood and didn't acknowledge anything but the road and the music. One, which was making his eyes heavy, the other making his voice hoarse. He squeezed the wheel tight and readjusted his focus. If he were to give in and really look at Sam, he would be forced to listen to another story or fall into another lie. And he wasn't in the mood for either one so he turned the front of the car north. But he couldn't help himself, it was a part of him. He stole a hasty scan in his brother's direction. He knew Sam was unwilling. He knew he was hesitant. Places could be like people sometimes. Warm and inviting, loving and embracing. Or they could be menacing and poisonous. Too quick to burn memories in the back of the mind that one would rather forget. Or wonder if the memory was even real in the first place.

Dean reconsidered the suggestion of looking for a cheap motel. Really, really cheap. Chesterhill may not be the best place for him and Sam right now, but then… Chesterhill did have two things Dean needed – that Dean craved – and his mouth watered.

Free bed and free beer.

-TBC-

**Playlist: **_The Thrill is Gone_ performed by B.B. King

_ I Drink Alone _performed by George Thorogood

-0-

_Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound_ performed by Hank Williams, Jr.

**A/N:** If you're here, thanks for reading. Like my other stories, I will post a new chapter every two to three days. Thanks again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Thanks for your reviews. If you're joining me and the boys for the second chapter, I'd love to hear what you'd think.

And, **MAZ**… I adore you.

**Chapter Two: Closing Time**

_March, 2009_

He was wiping the counter with a dirty rag.

He moved his hands in a rhythmic wax on/wax off motion and wondered how long he'd actually been using this filthy rag. A few hours? A coupla days? He wasn't sure anymore. He guessed that was because he really didn't care.

A ten-dollar bill was thrown at him and he saw a hand swish out of the edge of his vision. He snatched the bill off the counter before it stuck to the wetness and gave a friendly wave back. He turned from the empty bar and opened the cash register, apathetically letting the Hamilton fall in with the other bills. He closed the drawer and looked up.

There he was. Staring back. His reflection, trapped in the mirror, and it was always at this moment when the night became naked that he noticed he didn't know the person he was anymore. The blue eyes were the same, the long brown hair still needed a cut but he was older. His skin didn't pull back nicely on its own any longer. There were wrinkles around his eyes, across his forehead. He looked lost. Out of place. The connection to who he once was was gone. If there had ever been one. He rubbed a hand across his jaw and made a fist, placing it next to his chin.

The jukebox kicked to the next vinyl and _A Song for Jeffrey_ started twanging from Jethro's guitar and Jeff smiled to himself. His fist dropped down and his chin fell to his chest. His breathing slowed as he listened to the sounds mumbling into the open area and he realized that he never could understand the words to the song.

"Figures," he said aloud.

The front door scraped and scratched against the floor for a few seconds and then shut with a dull thud.

Jeff let out a sigh, his eyes snagging 1:47a.m. on his wristwatch. Freaking small town drunks. Probably a couple of kids from down the highway trying to pass off a fake ID on him.

He grabbed the dirty rag and turned around, the words catching from loud to soft as they fell from his mouth, "Closing… time."

Two guys were grabbing up stools, hoisting themselves up to lean against the bar, their hands folding on the counter he'd just cleaned.

Blue eyes narrowed and for a minute, he thought maybe a pair of ghosts had just walked back into his life.

"Winchester?" he whispered to them and almost lost the rest of his breath when he saw them both nod. "Oh, God." He took in a much-needed breath and his face broke out into a broad wrinkled grin, his eyes twinkling in the harsh neon lights. "You guys… got big!" he bellowed.

Dean smiled back; Sam shifted uncomfortably, pulling his weight up on the too small cushion.

"Well," Dean thumbed over to the right, "one of us got a little bigger than the other." He nodded to the man and then asked, "You alone tonight, Jeff?"

"Nah," the man pushed away from the cash register and walked the two steps to the bar, "Ben will be here. He just had to run out and tend to Ramona for a bit."

Jeff watched nervously as Dean twirled on the seat of the stool and looked around, his eyes soaking in everything that he had seen before the few times in his life he had visited this hole in the wall. Same floor. Same lights. Same jukebox, Eric Clapton starting in with _Promises_. It all looked… exactly the same.

Sam didn't look anywhere, just studied his hands, his left thumb chasing the right.

Dean circled around looking back at the barkeep. "Still flipping records on the jukebox?"

Jeff smiled and nodded. "Yeah, forty-fives. We tried out some new stuff, you know, during Curt Cobain, but then he had to go off and put a bullet in his head and the music just got shitty after that."

"The day the music died, huh?"

"Could say that, I guess," Jeff said with a raised eyebrow.

"You got a new clock," Dean observed.

Jeff's blue eyes shot over the hunter's head as he saw the small digital clock in the back of the bar sporting the logo for _Schlitz_ blinking in red dots: 1:53a.m.

"Yeah," Jeff shrugged, "the old place isn't as pretty anymore." He faked a smile. "Shit, I'm not as pretty anymore."

Dean rapped his knuckles on the worn countertop, a cautious tick starting to turn his mouth up.

The bartender blinked a couple of times at the men. The way the younger one stared at his hands, head low, not even saying as much as a hello; the older one, spinning on the stool, his hands shaking without even noticing. It was a disconnect. Two halves looking the other way. Accepting dark with dark and danger with danger and neither one of these brothers even pretended to care anymore what was right or what was wrong.

"Need a drink?" Jeff asked, his eyes staying on Dean's eyes, not his hands.

"Yeah," he breathed, almost more excited than relieved. Jeff was used to the signs.

The older man reached under the bar and grabbed a brown bottle, didn't matter the label, and popped the top off for him.

"How 'bout you?" He directed to Sam.

A quick shake of the head answered him, but he didn't look up.

Jeff grabbed two more bottles, opened both up and slid one to Sam anyways, keeping the third one for himself.

"Bad hunt?" Jeff asked with a small hint of humor.

Dean took a long drink. His eyes skidded over to his brother.

Sam hadn't touched the bottle. But he took a chance and glanced up. "Bad year," he replied.

The brown bottle was raised up from Jeff's hands in appreciation of the words and the blues of his eyes twinkled. "Been bad on everyone, boys."

The door scraped and scuffed along the floor. Neither brother turned from their position, even though they knew the other Timmons brother was blowing in through the front.

"What the hell?" Ben called out. "How long they been here?"

Dean glanced over his shoulder, turning on the cushion as he watched Ben came into view. He wasn't as pretty anymore, either. A life weathered and hardened by booze and smoke and God knew what else had worn all over his face. His belly suffered some damage from too much fast food as well. It was round and pulled his clothes tight around his middle.

"Ben!" Dean waved.

"I don't know many folks who still get themselves around in a '67 Chevy!" He worked his way up to the bar and extended his hand, taking Dean's forcefully in his and shaking for a long minute. He smiled deeply at the hunter holding the grasp longer than needed. Jeff could see his smile shaking at the corners, causing his cheeks to quake. He hoped he was the only one who noticed.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "You okay, man?"

Ben let his hand go and his smile dropped. Jeff watched as he leaned across and placed a warm palm on Sam's back. He patted it a couple of times and waited until Sam looked over, his eyes only touching on the man's features briefly and then falling away again.

The big guy shuffled around the bar and accepted the beer being offered to him from his brother. He took a swig and then leaned towards the boys, his stomach almost pushing his own kin out of his way.

"Who told you?"

Both sets of Winchester eyes inquisitively looked up.

"Told us what?" Dean's hands opened slightly.

Ben took another drink. "We've been looking for you boys for a coupla months."

Dean turned his head to look at Sam. His brother frowned and shrugged back. "What for?" Dean ventured.

There was a flick of a lighter and Ben was inhaling, followed by a round of wet coughs and then one more puff before he tried answering that one. "First, I want to say," and he leaned across the counter even more, closer to each brother, his finger pointing, swaying from one to the other, "I was real, real sorry to hear about your daddy."

Jeff noticed the arch of tension stretch between the boys. Dean's body stiffened and he heard Sam swallow hard. The younger brother cleared his throat and offered up, "It's okay – "

"No," Ben was saying, shaking his head. "No, it isn't. I was there once, too, you know. Lost both my folks. Orphaned and forced to watch this one." He thumbed to his left. "It's never easy. Saying the name of your daddy into the air and knowing he'll never answer you back." His eyes fell on Sam and he smiled through the smoke. "Your dad was a decent man. You know, he gave me good advice once and I didn't take it."

Sam stared back at him, his eyes shining under the dim light. "Yeah? What was that?"

Jeff's older brother looked lost for a second, his eyes vacant, caught in another time. "Doesn't matter. Anyways, I've been calling looking for a little help. Hell, I tried your dad, that old bar Ellen had, Caleb… I tried everybody I knew. All I got was a bunch of wrong numbers and disconnected lines. You hunters sure are hard sons of bitches to find."

"So, this is all just a coincidence?" Dean tapped at the brown bottle. "We're just passing through. No one has called us or anything."

Ben lifted a hefty shoulder. "I only found one hunter. He didn't know how to get a hold of you, but he told me about John. Told me how lots of folks in your profession have been turning up dead or missing. He didn't even know if you two were alive or not. He thought maybe you were dead." His eyes squinted at Dean and he reached across the counter to poke a meaty finger into his shoulder. "But you both look like you're breathing to me. What happened? Music save your mortal soul?"

Dean gave a slight nod. "Something like that."

The jukebox kept cranking and Big Ben kept staring and Dean finished off his drink and looked over at Jeff. The sound of the cap popping off the top of another bottle made his hand shake all over again as the bartender pushed it over. Jeff tried not to notice how Sam had cocooned himself in silence. That he had barely taken a look at his beer. Or at Ben. Or at his own brother.

"Well, what is it?" Dean asked after taking his first drink off his second brew. "What did you need?"

Ben shook his head. His green eyes had gotten smaller somehow, maybe it was the extra layer of fat that had grown on his face in the passing years. Maybe it was the fact that his lids were drooping and bloodshot and the green was just taken over by the sadness they held. "It's Val," he said matter-of-factly.

Sam let out a heavy sigh and Jeff took a glimpse just in time to see the younger man close his eyes. His knee bounced once off the bar of the stool and his face scrunched tight for a few seconds.

"What about Val?" Dean pressed on, ignoring the squirms next to him.

But Ben was looking back at Sam and his face was just as pain-filled as his eyes were. He seemed to mumble something in Spanish under his breath that none of them caught. But Sam wasn't looking up and before anyone could ask what they had just missed, Ben blurted out, "She's haunting the joint."

-O-

_March, 1985_

"Thanks for your kindness," John Winchester was saying as he shook hands with his hosts. It had been seventy-two hours of quiet days and loud nights in the bar. Not the most ideal place for a young one to rest and ward off a fever, but the kids had adapted rather well to all the noise and at least Sam had slept through most of it.

It was Dean who had been curious to all the happenings outside their door. He'd lay in bed and listen until something in his gut would pull him out. He'd quietly crawl out of his covers, cross over John's body and creak the door open just enough to peep an eye out. The bar would be full of so much laughter and life and music. It was too much excitement for Dean not to want to check out.

The light would always trigger John's senses though, and he'd swoop in and steal the child away from the door, wagging a finger at him in warning. Until it happened again.

"No problem," Ben was saying as John came in from packing the trunk full of duffels. Full of their life's necessities now. "It's actually been kinda nice having you boys stay." He smiled at the hunter as John yelled down the hall for the boys to 'come along'.

"Well," John turned to him as the boys gathered in the open bar, "If I can ever do anything for you, let me know." He jotted down a phone number on a piece of paper and handed it back to the bartender.

The door scritched and scratched behind him and John turned around, his hand coming up like a blade, shielding the morning sun from his lazy eyes. A little girl bounced in, followed by her younger brother and finally their mother who silhouetted the doorframe with her small shape. She was talking faster to the kids than they were running. Her words were coming out in a mix of English and Spanish tangled together in an odd made-up alphabet.

"Benny?" The name fell out thickly accented.

Ben smiled. "Hey, Val."

The woman walked in and pushed past the rugged hunter, barely giving him a look. Just another customer. "I'm going out. You take niños."

Ben was nodding at her. "Okay. Just give me a minute." He gestured towards John. "Val, this is John. The guy I told you about. He and his boys have been staying here. John, this is my fiancée, Val."

Her dark brown eyes swayed over to the tall man and she frowned. Her eyes looked wild and untamed as they kept traveling around the bar as she watched her own children interacting with the young Winchesters. Her daughter was shyly walking around the older boy while the toddlers were trying a game of push and shove.

"How old?" she asked slowly, her tongue pronouncing each word carefully so to be understood.

John glanced over. "Dean's six. Sam's almost two."

She watched the children, calling to her own every so often, "Conchita, play nice. Angel, no, no. Don't hurt."

John watched them, too. It wasn't often his two boys found playmates, even if only for a few minutes.

"Ramona is seven," Val introduced her own babies. "My Angel will be two en Mayo. The second."

John tilted his head, trying to follow her accent, listening hard to the mix of words. "What? Your little boy will be two in May?"

Val nodded, keeping her eyes on the kids. "The second."

"May Second?" John grinned back at her, his face falling to a confused frown. "That's the same day as my little boy's birthday."

Val's eyes snapped up. "Yes?"

"Yes." John nodded.

Both parents turned again to watch their children playing with each other. Ramona was smiling at Dean, her earlobes sparkling with diamond studs, her neck graced with three gold necklaces, one bearing a cross. Angel was gripping at Sam's shirt as he was trying to waddle away. The little boy's dark blue eyes were dancing with delight as he pulled back on the other boy's shirt, causing Sam to tumble to the ground. Angel fell on top of him, giggles erupting from his small mouth. His own strands of gold swayed against his chest as he pulled himself up.

"Donde esta su madre?"

John flicked his eyes to the dark skinned woman. Her hair was jet black and framed the beauty in her face like a painting. She was drop dead gorgeous. And couldn't hold a candle to his Mary. "Dead."

Valentina's eyes met John's and she held tight for a moment. "Sorry."

John nodded. He let a small smile spread on his face. She was interesting. He liked her.

"You got a light?" She asked behind her shoulder.

A lighter suddenly appeared between the two of them and John startled. He had forgotten anyone else was in the room besides he and Val and the four kids.

"You can't smoke around them," Ben ground out.

She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a lone cigarette and placed it to her lips. The flick of the Bic sounded and John saw her take a gentle a jab to her shoulder. Her eyes darkened as she spat out, "Que quieres?"

"No fumar." Ben's voice was solid. Commanding.

With that, the woman sighed. She stashed the lighter into her purse, but kept the stogie out, held in her hands. She waved at the children playing. "Your boy. He is okay?"

John's lips turned down. "Yeah, they're okay."

"Un poco uno… er, uh, the little one?"

John looked over to Sam. He was just standing up again, having been tackled by Angel a few times now. "He's good. He doesn't remember her." Not sure if that was what the woman was asking, but not sure if it wasn't either.

"Is he," she hesitated, her throat working a dry swallow, "is he, different?"

"Different?" John's confusion returned. "Different how?"

She studied the children as she spoke, ignored the clearing of the throat behind her. "Are his eyes okay?"

That was new. John frowned. "I think so. I've never had them tested."

"Val –"

"I mean, do they change?" She gazed up, her eyes wide. Fear and need reaching like long fingers to the man next to her. She looked desperate. Desperate for someone to understand. "Does _he_ change?"

John blinked back and thought about the nights since Mary's death. Holding Sam, rocking him to sleep, feeding him, playing with him. His hazel eyes were his mother's. No one else's. He shook his head. "No."

"You never… see they… look…" she stumbled with her tongue, biting her upper lip. "Yellow?"

"His eyes?"

She nodded.

He shook his head again and slowed his speech down so she would follow. "No. I've never noticed his eyes are yellow." He watched her look away again, watching the children. "Is that what you're asking me?"

No answer. Her arms folded across her middle and she turned a shoulder in his direction. John literally felt a chill in his presence. He glanced behind him and saw Ben staring back at them, a look of regret on his face.

"Is that what she asked me?" John asked.

Ben gave a nod and thumped two fingers to his head.

-O-

_March 2009_

"How do you know it's her?" Dean asked.

The older man shrugged. "Who else could it be?" He shook his head. "Val's been gone for eighteen years. It's been quiet. Business as usual. And now… well, I've been seeing a lady friend and…" he cleared his throat, "things just keep happenin'."

Dean waited. "What kind of things?"

"Glasses breaking. Music turning on when she comes here –"

"The lady friend?"

Ben nodded. "Gina. Whenever she comes here, it's like the whole place just… comes to life."

Dean looked around. Everything seemed so still and quiet now. "Just when _she_ comes here?"

"Yeah, so she stopped coming."

"Smart move."

"But now," he stamped his cigarette out, "now Gina's" he dropped his voice low, a whisper, like he had secret, "she's pregnant." He lifted his brows and nodded his head in affirmation when Dean pointed his finger at the big guy.

Dean sat back. He felt Sam look up.

"Now it's starting to escalate. Ramona, she… she screams whenever Gina's near her. They can't be in the same house together. And I need them to be together. I can't be running back and forth to two houses, but when Gina's around, it's like Ramona is possessed by the devil."

"Ramona," Sam stopped Ben's story and blinked hard. "Ramona's still the same, then?"

Ben nodded, his eyes soft.

"She never got any better?" Dean could see Sam's throat work up and down and watched as his brother turned three shades of green.

"No."

"Have you tried salting and burning Val's bones?" Dean cut to the chase.

Ben nodded. "Sure, but when I was there something nearly broke my knee. Then I went back. Something cut me here." He pulled his collar down and showed the boys a deep scar near his neckline. "I sent Jeff and..." Ben looked over to his little brother.

Eyes hollow and old, Jeff Timmons looked down and away. "I almost had a heart attack out there. Something… grabbed hold of me and… I thought I was gonna have a heart attack."

Ben pushed off from the bar, standing taller, his stomach filling empty space. He steadied both brothers in his view and his forehead wrinkled over his droopy eyes. "I almost lost him." He hitched in a breath at the thought and blew it away, keeping his eyes pinned on the Winchesters.

"Okay," Dean tilted his head, thinking things through. Take the easy road. Go. Get the bad guy. Keep everyone safe and happy. Celebrate with more beer. "Well, maybe we can take care of it for you. Salt and burn…"

"I was hoping you'd say that." Ben gave a small smile to Dean and then glanced back over to Sam.

The younger hunter was staring back, his eyes cold and detached. His body was pulled inward and closed off.

"How 'bout you, Sam?" Ben challenged.

All eyes landed on Sam and from the expression on his face Dean wished they would all look away. His brother seemed like he wanted to run and hide.

"Sam?" Dean's voice leaked into his invisible walls. "You with us, man?"

"Sure," Sam agreed quickly and turned his head to look at his brother.

Part of Dean wanted to find that place and secure Sam in it. Keep Sam safe from everyone who wanted to hurt him.

Dean's brows drew together, bunching over the bridge of his nose. He felt the urge to lift a hand and place it on Sam's shoulder, but he resisted. He knew if he reached out and actually touched his brother, he'd shake him until he turned blue in the face. Or he'd push him until Sam came back swinging. Or he'd grab hold him and not be able to let him go. The consequences to any of those actions were enough to keep Dean's hands on the counter. "Yeah? Because you look –"

"I'm in, okay? I just…" he looked the other way, passed Ben, passed Jeff and off to the far right. Where nothing greeted him but the recognition of the dark.

Dean sighed. "What?"

Sam's eyes grew impatient. He huffed, aggravated but answered, "Nothing."

Dean turned away and looked back at the brothers. Back where the lamp above cast light down on the counter. He felt puzzled stares anxiously grazing in his direction but he didn't acknowledge them.

He just sat next to Sam. He wondered if he ever did find that hiding spot how the hell would he protect Sam from himself.

Sam let out a small laugh and reassured the apprehensive men. "Yeah, I'm in."

**Translations: **niños: children/kids

Conchita: an endearment for her daughter

En Mayo: In May

Donde esta su madre?: Where is his mother?

Que quieres?: What do you want?

No fumar: No smoking.

Un poco uno: the little one

**Playlist: **_Song for Jeffrey _performed by Jethro Tull and _Promises _performed by Eric Clapton (in reference to)

_Closing Time_ performed by Semisonic

**A/N:** Again, I'll be posting chapters every two-three days. Thanks for reading.


	3. One Bourbon One Scotch One Beer

**Disclaimer:** Refer to Chapter One.

**A/N: **I've never really been involved in other fandoms except for SUPERNATURAL. What I really love about this is that the fans are cool and smart and we all come from different places with different stories. I dig that about all of you.

So, I have to say that I do speak a little Spanish, however, it is really medically driven. I am a nurse and I just fill in the blanks with English when I am talking to someone who speaks Spanish and a little bit of English. We always seem to make it work. It was pointed out to me that I am in error – "the little one" would actually be "el pequeño". I apologize for those that noticed I got it wrong and I want to thank Vicky for pointing it out to me. Those are important things to know. There isn't a whole lot of Spanish left in the story, but I do bring up "the little one" again. Sorry if I irritated anyone!

**Beta:** Anyone ever read 'Without a Trace' fandom? If so, you can check out my wonderful beta's first story ever! It's been very exciting! (remove the spaces)

http: // www. fanfiction. net / u/ 1174438/

**Chapter Three: One Bourbon. One Scotch. One Beer**

_March, 2009_

He kicked off his boots and wiggled his toes, releasing with it a much needed sigh of relief. It felt so good to do something so mundanely human. He often wondered if there was a doctor who specialized in his kind of ailment. Maybe some kind of witch doctor or wizard or maybe just a regular M.D. with a white coat and an expensive pen. If one existed, Sam guessed this would be just the kind of medicine the doctor would order.

Stick to things that everyone else does. Brush your teeth. Go to work. Raise a family. Eat. Sleep. Be normal. Because being normal will be the road that leads to all the happiness in the world.

Don't smoke. Don't do drugs. Don't exorcise demons with your mind. Try crossword puzzles instead.

Sam glanced up as his brother pushed into the small room, carrying his clothes duffel and the weapons sack. He didn't say anything, just found a spot in the corner and turned around. He reached into his front pocket and removed his silver flask, twisting the top off.

One. Two. Three quick swigs.

"Salt and burn in the morning," Dean breathed as he capped his flask and shoved it back into his pocket.

Sam nodded. He stood up and pulled his jeans off, keeping his shirt on and climbed back into the bed, pulling the covers up to his neck.

Big Ben had brought in extra blankets and pillows for the lucky man taking the floor and Dean was already clumsily putting on his sleep pants for the night.

Sam didn't even have to argue. Dean had relinquished the old, crappy bed with a wave of his hand. He claimed the floor would be more comfortable anyway and who knew what was living in that mattress.

Sam had flashed him something that resembled a smile, but he really was grateful. The past week he'd spent his nights folded like a pretzel in either bench of the Impala. It was going to feel good to stretch out.

Normal.

"This place still give you the creeps?" Dean asked, unfolding the thick blanket.

Sam rolled to his back and bent his right arm behind his head. The soft glow from above seemed to stutter but Dean didn't notice. Sam wondered what else Dean wasn't noticing.

"No."

Dean's mouth tightened, but Sam refused to look over, he just stared blankly at the damned light above them. He knew his voice had come across as taut and reserved. He just hoped it sounded tired and not like he was lying.

The older hunter crawled down to his makeshift bed, yanking the pillow with him, rolling to his right, away from the bed. Away from Sam. He mumbled under his breath something about beds that are made and how everyone has to lie in them, but Sam pretended he didn't hear him.

Even if it was obvious he had.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "You think it's Val? Think she's haunting the place?"

Sam shrugged, although he knew Dean couldn't see it. "Maybe." He listened as his brother tossed and turned on the floor, punching his pillow. Sam's head rolled to the right. "Sometimes there are people who are just born to haunt a place."

Dean huffed his response as his body stilled. He was as relaxed as he was going to get. "Shut off the light," he muttered and Sam scooted up and reached for the light switch on the wall, causing the small bed to creak and crank.

The room grew darker than all the nights Sam had witnessed from inside the Impala. It was hard to focus, hard to decipher what was what and where things were. He heard his brother let out a heavy breath and then made a gagging sound followed by a loud belch. All the beers Dean had put away with the Timmons' brothers were finally catching up with him.

"Hey, Dean?"

There was a few seconds of silence as Sam waited for Dean to buzz through the haze of almost-sleep. He turned his head to his side and listened as Dean came back into the reality of the dark room.

"What?" Dean's voice was sluggish, slurred with nearby hopes of sleep.

"You haven't heard from… up above or anything?" Sam always had a love/hate relationship with the dark. He loved that he could hide in it and he hated what he became.

Dean took another deep breath, this one more annoyed than anything and let it out. Sam hoped he'd answer. He knew Dean was getting tired of him asking about his extra-curricular friends. About what Cas had told Dean. That he was the one who had to stop it because he was the one who had started it. He certainly hadn't mentioned Sam and how he played into the whole picture.

For that reason alone, Sam would ask about what new information Dean had heard. Dean wasn't keeping secrets, he was being as open and honest with Sam as he possibly could. Of course, when it came to Sam and the games he was playing and who he was playing with…

Dean cleared his throat. "No. Why?"

There was a pause that lasted longer than needed and Dean was starting to submit to sleep again.

"No reason." Sam spoke softly. He felt the air shift and without seeing, he knew Dean's eyes were closing. His brother's body calmed in the dark. He heard his inhales deepen, his exhales lengthen and he mumbled as sleep came to claim him.

Soon Sam found that his own dreams were flooding his subconscious, meshing and tangling with hurtful words and secrets unspoken. Visions of a ball rolling, someone catching it, lips on his forehead, his Dad smiling. Then there were demons reaching over his head, grabbing invisible people. Some with red eyes. Some with yellow. And his Dad wasn't smiling anymore. He was… angry, yelling, and Sam was stumbling forward and falling backwards with his chest ripped apart and his heart pumping in his own pale hands. He heard a name spoken in his ear, thick and accented, _"Conchita"_ and Sam looked over to his left. Someone was looking back at him. He tried to move, tried to walk over to see who it was but his feet wouldn't budge. Then he felt his hand fall over the very real broken down mattress, back in the dark room, hitting his brother's shoulder.

Dean woke frantically with a strangled gasp caught in his throat.

-0-

_August, 1990_

There were things they would never know about their father. The simple reasoning being that John Winchester had wanted it that way. He was not a sharing man. He was not an emotional man. He was structured and he was disciplined. He was a father. A protector. And gave out much needed information on a much need to know basis. There were always questions without reasons and sometimes one of the boys would ask but mostly they wouldn't. John just wasn't the answering kind of guy.

Dean never knew when John had figured it out about Sam. From the day he had bent down and whispered _"Don't be scared"_ into his son's ear and then followed up with the words that changed Dean's life, he had wondered when John had known. How long.? Was it all at once or did he piece it together? How long did he keep that secret? The one that ended in a really important need to know right-the-fuck-now answer.

Since that time, Dean had spent quiet hours in the Impala racking his brain, combing through his memory. Using time in motel rooms while the TV flashed useless reruns to remember times he'd rather forgotten. He tried to conjure up the ghosts in his mind to put the timetable together and there were things he remembered. Things that at the time, he didn't understand but now… well, John Winchester always had a reason for being someplace. They never spent a night in a town without there being a _reason why_ they were there.

"It smells funny in here," Dean had commented as John led him to the backroom of the bar. He nodded to the twin bed, telling him he'd have to bunk with Sam. John would take the floor.

Dean had sighed. He'd complained the entire ride through the heat of Ohio in August. He'd only wanted to stop to pee, not spend a couple of days. John, however, had a different take on the situation.

"Why're we here?" Dean asked.

"No reason," John answered, without meeting his older son's eyes.

They had just came off a hunt involving a demon possessing a young girl. One of John's first encounters he had ever had with one. When he realized what it was, what the threat was, he had sent Dean out the back of the building to watch Sam. Dean had done as he was told, kept Sam safe, stayed outside.

And watched his father deal with the demon through dirty windows.

The girl was about sixteen and she had a mouth on her that made Dean's ears hot. John ejected the Latin from his lips as fast as he could while the young body writhed on the floor. He could hear her scream and beg and John ignored her, the words running together faster and louder.

Until Dean remembered her saying Sam's name and John's tongue tied for a second. Dean watched in horror as his father crouched down closer to the demon, their voices dropping low. He couldn't hear from outside the broken building, but the demon's eyes fixed on his father's and he could see her lips mouth Sam's name more than once, her face breaking into a wicked smile and then John standing back up, shouting the Latin again until her body emptied of the black smoke and the girl was left gasping for her life on the cold floor.

After a stop to the hospital, John headed his small family to Ohio. He claimed to not know where they were headed next, just kept driving. He barely wanted to stop for dinner. He just wanted the run, run, run of the Impala and the satisfaction of crossing state lines until he pulled up into the muddy parking lot and walked back into the old bar.

Dean remembered the staccato rhythm playing out of the jukebox. He remembered the smile on Ben's much thinner face, true and genuine. "Now there's a son of a bitch I'd knew I'd see again," he was saying to the hunter, barely pausing over the boys with his eyes. He'd called to his brother and Jeff had quickly come over.

They all shook hands and Ben had asked what'd be. John had simply replied, "A bed."

The barkeep nodded and then John added, "Oh, and," a crooked grin answered the next question, "one bourbon. One scotch. One beer." Which made both brothers chuckle and raise their eyebrows, but it was a request they were more than able to fill.

www

It had taken until night for John to relax into his surroundings. He had made sure the boys were fed, made sure their bed was warm with sleeping bodies before he had made his move. The bar life was filtering back out the door. Fast women and faster men were snatching up their prey for the night – and the morning – and things were quieting down. A lone wolf sat at the far end of the counter, eyes stuck on his beer, no skag on his arm. But save his company, the bar was empty.

John smiled. The Grateful Dead was playing low on the jukebox and a small boy no one detected wandered out of his bed a half hour before, opening the door to his room just a crack to watch as the life exited the bar.

"How's business?" John started. He had felt a balance shift since his arrival. The brothers had always run the bar like it was more than just their business, like it was home. But it didn't feel as cozy as it had the last time he was here. The boys seemed off. They were a footstep behind one another. John caught the looks, the biting of the lips, the snide remarks to each other and the eyes swishing away.

Something had happened since his last visit.

Business had been good, Ben was saying. Mostly locals from the town, from the surrounding areas, a few travelers, but the money was decent and times were profitable. The bar was standing and the beer was flowing as fast as the cash from friendly fists.

"How're the kids?" John asked, a twinkle in his eye as he thumbed the sweat rolling down his beer. He stole a look at the brothers and felt a nervous heat light his face.

"Ramona's doin' pretty good. Pretty good," Ben's eyes fell to the countertop.

Jeff poured a shot of whiskey and slid the glass to his brother.

John waited silently. Ramona wasn't exactly the child he was curious about. He took a swig of his beer and watched as Ben tossed the whiskey to the back of his throat. He licked his lips and pushed the shot glass back to Jeff, tapping it once.

Jeff obliged and hit him again.

The whiskey was thrown back a second time and John's eyes shifted to his bottle. The music cut in through the conversation like it was a third party asking to dance. The hunter tried to ignore the request, but his throat started rolling up and down in a soft hum.

_Ran into the devil, babe, he loaned me twenty bills/I spent the night in Utah in a cave up in the hills_

There were no more ladies dancing in men's laps, trading sloppy kisses back and forth by the time Dean had wandered down the hallway. He crouched down low to listen as he heard his father's voice in the open bar. He was sitting with the two brothers, talking and laughing, but mostly watching and listening. Dean didn't miss that one.

The flick of the lighter got both their attentions and Dean slid down the wall, out of sight, eyeing his father's face. It took him a couple of drags and then Ben was geared up and ready to talk.

"We've hit a rough patch," he stated, not looking at anyone or anything in particular.

John waited.

"Rough patch is puttin' it lightly," Jeff muttered and Ben shot over a look that silenced him.

"You know Valentina… she hasn't been right for a while now."

John nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"And it's gotten really bad... been really bad for almost a year now." He smoked on, the clock behind them ticking the seconds away. The man seemed to get lost in a crossroads of words and he couldn't decide which road would be the easiest to stay on as his throat caught on his emotions.

"How bad is bad?" John offered.

"I'm, uh, kicking Val out." Ben paused, eyes landing on him. "Probably… maybe… Yeah."

Jeff's neck stiffened. "What?" His eyes tennis-balled from John to his brother. "You didn't tell me this." Then, from the gut, demanding to know, he asked, "Why?"

Ben tilted his chin to the right. "Why the hell do you think?"

The younger brother leaned across the bar and shook his head. His breath sped up and John noticed his hand splayed across his chest, like it had just tightened. "No, man, you can't. Not after everything. You can't fucking ditch her now." He lifted blue eyes to him and tried to plead with the man.

Ben didn't meet his eyes, though. He just kept staring across the counter at the hunter staring back. "Have to." He stamped the used smoke on a full ashtray and shoved it away, silent curses blowing out of his mouth along with the smoke. "You've seen her. She's not right. She's… she's seeing things and talking crazy. She can't even be a good mother to Ramona anymore."

John stayed silent, but his eyes narrowed back to Ben. Ramona? Just Ramona? Not to Angel? He wanted to ask, but Jeff was driving the conversation and John was just hanging out in the backseat at the moment.

A new pack of cigarettes was being untwined and Jeff's head was shaking back and forth.

"You know," Jeff started soft, an understanding tone, "I know it's been hard on both of you."

Ben looked over and stared hard at him. There was the flick of the Bic and he lit up again.

Jeff shuttered in a breath. John knew from the stricken look that the younger man had seen the look before in the older brother. He wanted to warn him not to keep going, but this wasn't his family. This wasn't his place. "But you can't just push her away. She needs help."

Wrong words. Ben was glaring now, his eyes throwing punches that his hands didn't dare do. "You of all people know what I've done for her. I've gotten her help. We've seen every psychiatrist, every counselor, ever preacher in the tri-state area. She's been to the hospital – how many times now?"

Jeff looked away. "Three."

"Three." Ben held up his center fingers incase Jeff had suddenly become deaf. "Three times. We try one med, than another. She's taking _eight_ pills, Jeff. Eight." He thumped the side of his skull. "_All_ for her head. And nothing. Nothing has worked."

He took a quick hit off his Camel and watched his younger brother. Had been doing it for thirty years now. Fifteen of those without parental supervision.

Jeff kept his eyes low to the ground. John could see that the man wanted to say something, but his words were dust particles now, stuck on the wood floor below, waiting to get swept away or tramped on by big feet. Either way, it didn't really matter what Jeff said.

"She wasn't the only one who lost that night. I lost him, too." Ben shook his head. "We all lost him."

The words were faint and full of pain. It was the sound John recognized as grief. He could see from Jeff's eyes that he didn't fully understand. Not yet. There was a singe of fresh pain behind his eyes. Jeff blinked hard, ignoring the sting. He was trying not to cry in front of his brother. John could see it was important to him not to break down about this. _Never_ about this. This was one area where the younger man had to keep it together.

Just in case the older would let himself break.

"Ben…"

"Lost who?" John's voice slammed between the conversation, unable to stay quiet any longer. "What the hell happened?"

Ben looked over, taking the few years of being a father with him and with a tremble of his chin, he said, "Angel. We lost him almost a year ago."

John felt the heat return to his cheeks again and wasn't sure if it was shock or sympathy or disappointment. Probably a bit of all three. "He… died?" the hunter went on, making sure he was following correctly.

The cigarette paper was burning down to the end and stamped out in a smoky mix of disheartened and confused emotions. Ben took a few breaths without the aide of the tobacco and tried to keep his eyes low, his tears at bay.

John waited cautiously, not sure if he should be asking anything more. He remembered after Mary had passed on, the gloomy faces that would greet him, the smiles that would disappear. He remembered walking into rooms and hearing his friends laughter change to somber moods. He remembered the questions and the stares of disbelief when he tried to explain what had happened to his wife, how she died. He remembered the whispers and the _concern_. He'd never forget all the fucking concern.

"Angel drowned," Jeff finally spoke up for his brother, the younger man inching towards the older. "Valentina was giving the kids a bath and she left to help Ramona with her PJ's and… they thought he probably fell somehow. Got caught up in the shower curtain." Jeff stilled next to Ben, his forearm leaned across the countertop, grazing against his brother's.

"Is that what Val said happened?" John ventured, treading lightly.

Jeff let out a long sigh and tilted his head. "Val just, she just hasn't been right for a long time, you know? She thought there was something after him."

"After… your family?"

"No," Ben joined in again, "just Angel."

"Sounds like murder."

Three heads turned towards the end of the bar where the last customer still remained. He stood up from his bar stool and threw a twenty next to his empty glass.

"Get goin', Murphy," Jeff called over to him. "You know the story just as good as anyone around here and everyone checked out clean."

The old man walked around the bar and leaned into the trio. "I had three boys myself," he lifted wiry, gray eyebrows up high onto his forehead, "and all of 'em could take a bath by themselves by the time they was six."

Ben smashed a large, heated fist on the edge of the bar. His words tumbled out against clenched teeth, "Get goin' or I swear to God I'll throw you out myself."

The old man backed up and tipped his head in acknowledgement and respect. "I'm not sayin' Val had anything to do with it. I'm just sayin' maybe somethin' else was in that tub with your boy."

John squinted at the old man. Murphy swayed to the left and then the right, his words slurred and he pointed his finger off center at the men. Clear signs he'd had one too many to drink, but he oddly made sense to the third wheel at the bar.

"And," Murphy turned from the men and started towards the door, "you got young ears listenin' in to your words so be careful whatcha say."

John's head whipped around and he caught the tail end of Dean's little body scrambling off the floor and down the hallway with John on his heels behind him.

-0-

_March 2009_

Alastair was there. He was always there. Had been there for years now. Dean's body couldn't take it. The pure emotion he felt when he was in the demon's presence was unearthly. There were no words.

So he was always there when Dean closed his eyes, giving his body a much-needed break. His mind wandered through the fire, the cobwebs, the darkness, the screams until he was face to face with his mentor. And it sickened him.

_Heaven. I'm in Heaven._

It was in his dreams where he fought the things he could never escape.

_And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak._

Dean's heart was thumping against his ribcage, smacking his lungs, threatening to explode.

_And I seem to find the happiness I seek._

It was part of the big fucking problem. Where Dean's happiness lay now. He couldn't save the world because he was failing himself. He was failing his father. He was allowing Sam to become…

_When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek._

The faucet was dripping.

Dean blinked. No, it wasn't the faucet. It was the gutters from outside. He blinked a few more times realizing where he was and pushed himself up on wobbly arms. He looked around to the right and the left, trying to clear his head of the sloshing that was still present.

He looked towards the tiny window in the back of the room and could see through the barely opened blinds that there was moisture running down the glass. He shoved himself up onto his palms and sat with his back against the small bed.

"Hey, Sam," he ground out and quickly cleared his throat, "get up. We gotta start digging." _In the mud and the rain_. Dean's hand flew over his shoulder and hit an empty bed. His head spun around, followed by the rest of his body. "Shit," Dean grumbled as he untangled himself from the measly blankets on the floor and found himself half stumbling, half racing down the hallway into the bar.

"There's Sleeping Beauty." Jeff's crisp voice hit Dean's ears like a blow from a sharp edge that made him wince in pain.

"Sam?" Dean shouted out, a little too loud, a little too anxious. His eyes adjusted to the changing light and sparkles of white shimmered in his vision for a few seconds.

"I was just about ready to wake your ass up."

Dean turned to the right and saw his brother's too big form tucked away in the corner, hidden from the vast-emptiness of the joint.

Dean hobbled over and slid in the vacant booth. He opened his hands, palms up in question and glowered across the table. "What the fuck? Why didn't you wake me up?"

Sam sipped on a hot cup of black coffee. His eyes seemed dark as they peered over the steam and he calmly placed the porcelain back down. Regardless of his demure manner, Dean's first thought was that Sam sure looked like shit.

"I tried." Even Sam's voice sounded uneasy. "You told me to get lost."

The clock to Dean's right blinked 1:37 pm and he looked quickly back at Sam. "I did not."

"Yes, you did."

"You tried to wake me up?"

"Twice. I was just about ready to go back in and try again."

"Yeah?" He waited, watched as Sam nodded and picked the coffee cup back up. "And… you didn't go and try to do the job? Alone?"

Sam lifted an arm, as if bringing Dean back into reality. "Dude, it's raining outside."

"Yeah?"

"Two man job in the rain."

Which wasn't exactly true. But having a pair of extra hands did make it easier. And if that was the reason why his brother had stayed and waited for Dean, well, he would take it. In all honesty, Dean had given up trying to read his brother's next move a couple of months ago. He didn't know what Sam's plans were – secret or otherwise – or when they included Dean and when they didn't. There was a time when he could just look into his brother's eyes and read him. There was a time when he could close his own and feel him.

Now everything in Sam's world was thrown up in the air. And Dean was up there with all the garbage and baggage, trying to grab on to whatever Sam would allow.

"You just gonna sit there and stare at me or do you want to catch a shower first?"

Dean blinked. It was raining and a shower wouldn't do him any good. "I'll just… let me clean up a little and change my clothes."

"Okay."

"I'll be right back." He started to rise and pointed a finger at Sam. "You stay here."

"Okay."

"And every salt and burn is a two man job."

Sam's mouth ticked up. "Okay."

Dean headed down the hallway back to the small bedroom. But not before stealing a glimpse over his shoulder. Sam had his body pulled inwards again. He held everything close to his vest nowadays. His face was scrunched into some kind of questioning frown. A mask. A weak disguise to keep everyone out. When Dean had never before been so desperate to get in.

He felt guilty turning around and walking away. He had spent his whole life pushing Sam to the side when the going got tough. When emotions got high and Dean's feelings were at stake. Sam always tried to get him to open up. To tell him what he needed. That's when Dean pushed and shoved. When Dad died. When Sam died. When Dean sealed a deal. When Dean died. When he was resurrected.

But he always came around. And Sam was there. They got their groove back for a while. Got to be brothers again. They could count on each other. Hell, each other was all they had. For so long.

Then Hell happened. Time stretched and Dean lost.

_The righteous man…_

Dean closed his eyes as he turned the knob to the bedroom door. It was hard to hold on down there. It was hard to get off the rack. It was hard to say no and harder to say yes. It was hard to remember why. Sometimes he thought he forgot certain things. Like how to be a man.

_It wasn't your fault. You should forgive yourself. _

And how to love.

_You have people that want to help. You're not alone._

And Sam.

-TBC-

**Playlist:** _Friend of the Devil_ performed by the Grateful Dead

_ Cheek to Cheek_ performed by Frank Sinatra, but sang by Alastair

_One Bourbon. One Scotch. One Beer_ performed by George Thorogood

**A/N:** Thanks again. Hope you are still enjoying! Off to see if a salt and burn will do the trick!


	4. Get Drunk and Be Somebody

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Again, thanks for your notes! I appreciate them! I think it's cool when y'all try and guess what has happened/what's going to happen. It makes me smile and gives me goosebumps (**Vonnie **and **Carocali**, that is so for you!). Ah, and thanks to my wonderful **MAZ101** from across the pond. She gives me goosebumps, too. Really, really good kinds!

**Chapter Four: Get Drunk and Be Somebody**

_March, 2009_

The thing about living in Chesterhill was that no matter who they asked, no one was ever able to tell them who Chester was. They didn't have to ask about the hill, though. The entire town was built around that big old mound.

There were two distinct problems with this. One: whenever it rained, the mud and muck would run down the grooves into the town surrounding it. Cars got stuck, trucks plowed through, leaving behind deep ruts and furrows. Kids lost more shoes and socks per capita than anywhere else in America. So their mothers claimed.

Two: the hill was home to all of the former residents of Chesterhill.

The stones in the cemetery were mixed with old and new, some of the old had fallen down from age and weather. Loose rock was scattered on the wet ground, weeds over grew the small markers, hiding them from boots and weak ankles. Etchings on slabs were either rubbed off or too faded to make out. The newer ones were bigger, with ornate decorations on pretty colors of marble. They shone even in the rain. The ground around them easier to maintain with the grass cut short and flowers laid along the foot of the grave.

Dean hefted his shovel over his shoulder and felt Sam pull away from him, which was odd because he hadn't even noticed Sam's close proximity to him as they started the trek up the mud slimed hill. Dean stole a sideways glance at Too Tall and bit back a snide comment about personal space and a momentary joke about Sam being afraid the rain would melt him away. Instead he found himself clinging to the small act and stuffing it silently away in a place inside that he didn't even realize that he had made until now.

The realization suddenly made him nauseous.

"Do I need to carry you up?" Sam shouted down at him when his older brother started lagging behind.

The rain was coming down in a steady pour. Not hard but not soft, either. It was the perfect rain to lull a good nap. Not so much for digging in the mud and earth. They had checked the weather report, though, and this was it. At least four more days of rain and then… potential snow. It was do it today or wait and kick themselves for not doing it yesterday so Sam took the salt can and Dean took the fuel and each sharpened the blade of their shovel.

"I'm comin'." Dean pushed harder with his legs, his boots losing tread on the steepest parts of the hill. His hand reached awkwardly out catching his body from getting a mouthful of mud. Then he laughed silently at the irony of it all.

Mary Winchester had been a hunter who's hopes and wishes for her children were to not have to live a life like this. John had to have known about their mother's past. Her parents suddenly murdered, the remembrance of his neck snapping at the hands of her father. What reasons could she have given to explain all of that? Did she tell him that she had brought him back from the non-living? Did she tell him she made a deal with a demon with yellow eyes? Is that when their dad had first caught wind of it?

He hated to admit it, but it was getting harder to keep up with Sam. His long legs vs. Dean's bowed ones. It just wasn't meshing like it used to. Dean reached up and wiped at his forehead. He was actually thankful for the rain. Sam wouldn't be able to see the sweat spilling off his brow. Dean watched Sam jump effortlessly over a sunken headstone flanked by clay angels and he picked up his pace to try to stay in the game. The clay angels sure didn't look like any of the angels he had met. These looked sweet and serene, exactly the way Mary would describe them to him, watching over him full of love and kindness. He quirked a smile. If only she had known what they were really like.

Dean knew why the angels chose him.

_It's not the blame that falls upon you. It's the fate._

Which didn't make him feel any better. It was still his _fault_. The apocalypse. The possible rising of Lucifer. The fact that he went to Hell in the first place. Left Sam alone. Unprotected. Unloved. It was his fault.

Sam started to veer to the left and Dean followed suit, making it look like he had caught up with him easily.

When he had been given the gift to go back in time and see his parents young and brilliant and in the life they were supposed to lead, Dean had felt the love from his mother. The love he kept tucked and zipped at the bottom of his heart. The love Sam would never know.

It didn't matter how much Dad tried. Or Dean for that matter. There is no replacing the bond of a mother's love for her child. Dean hadn't had a lot of time to experience it. But he still remembered it. And when he saw his mother's spirit, when he saw her younger face, the zipper came undone, the love unfolded and he _felt_ that warmth again.

Sam never would.

"It's this way," Sam was nodding to a center portion of the hill.

Dean stifled a huff. "How do you know where it is?"

"Dad. He took us here that one time. I remember it was against that fence over there. There's a drop-off behind it."

Dean thought about that for a moment. "Dad took us up this hill?"

Sam nodded, glancing behind his shoulder. "Yeah. It wasn't so muddy back then."

"And you remember a fence?"

This time it was a shrug that Sam chose as his weapon of choice. "There were a whole bunch of birds on it. They creeped me out."

Dean looked over towards the center of the hill and there was an ancient wood fence running down the hill. Or more like falling down the hill. "Huh."

"I told you about it last night."

Okay, that was it. There was no way – no way – Sam had talked to Dean about where Valentina's body was buried and how he remembered because of some damn worn down fence line that he saw a whole bunch of birds sitting on when he was a kid. He narrowed his eyes and challenged his brother. "When?"

"Last night."

"Yeah. When last night?"

"When we were going to sleep." Sam pointed with his blade – "Should be right over there."

Dean took a glimpse to the area Sam was pointing to. In the near distance there was an off-white headstone with large hands praying towards the sky. "You mean you told me all of this after I went to sleep?"

"I didn't know you'd passed out."

Dean opened his mouth –

"I know, I know, you didn't pass out."

"That's right."

"You were just failing at trying to get drunk and be somebody."

Dean eyes snapped up. "What are you talking about?"

Sam stopped at the plot right before the off-white stone and brought his shovel down off his shoulder. "You only drank ten beers and whatever the hell was in your flask within a two hour period."

"Six beers."

"Ten."

Dean swung around the other side of the grave and dropped the lighter fluid onto the muddy ground. He rested his weight on the handle of the blade and looked wearily over at his brother. "Ten?"

Sam nodded back. "Ten." He swallowed and met his brother's eyes. The rain fell down from the cloudy sky, its temperature dropping a few degrees up on the large mound. He nodded again and held Dean's gaze for a moment, neither saying anything. Dean wondered which part of each story was the truth and which was the part that he told himself was the truth.

"So this is Val's?" Dean broke the connection first, looking down at the grave they had sidled next to. It was a simple granite stone, dark in color with just the basic information engraved:

** Valentina Mondalvo, born April 7, 1958; died August 28, 1990**.

He glanced behind him and noticed the rocky drop-off wasn't too far away. It looked like the hill just came to an abrupt end, the grass and mud plunging off the face of the earth. His gaze dropped and he looked to the stone next to Val's. It was the off-white tomb with the praying hands that he had noticed earlier. Up close it looked alone and cold sitting on the other side of the fence.

It belonged to Angel.

"Well?" Dean lifted his brows. "Looks like we made it further than Harpo and Groucho did."

Sam pulled back and came down slamming the blade into the first layer of mud. It filled the shovel rapidly with gunky sludge, which made it really heavy on the boys' backs when they swiveled to throw the slop to the wayside.

They had made it through the mud and about half way down into the ground when Dean's shovel hit on rock. "Son of a bitch," he muttered as he scraped along two or three small boulders. "Probably slid down here as the earth's been shifting."

Sam reached down and helped his brother dislodge and move the stones. "Hope this is her casket down here. I wouldn't be surprised if they're all sliding down the hill." Sam's face wrinkled into a scowl as he pulled up a rock and pushed it out of the grave, his arm grazing Dean's as he pushed forward.

"Don't know why the hell people," Dean grunted, "put bodies in the ground anyways."

Dean felt his brother stop and knew he was staring down at him without ever looking up. He felt his body tense up, felt the movement of his hand resting on his hip. And he felt his brother's blood go from hot to cold in a single sigh.

"Sam –"

"There are reasons why people bury bodies, Dean."

"Yeah, I know that."

"Not everyone has to be torched."

Dean stretched and rested his weight against his shovel again and tried to wave his hand dismissively. "I'm know and I'm glad –"

"You don't. You don't know." Sam looked down and started back in with his shovel, the dry and wet dirt flying out of the grave as fast as his back would allow.

Dean let it drop. They'd been here before. Sam couldn't understand about Hell and Dean couldn't understand… well, Sam. So he let his shoulders take out his frustration towards his brother and started back in on the dirt, less the rocks now, until Dean heard Sam's blade hit on something familiar.

_Clunk. Clunk._ It had a nice hollow ring to it. Kinda like the Tin Man without a heart.

"We're here," Sam announced as he scraped the curve of the coffin's top. Dean hoisted himself out of the grave, noticing the change in temperature, the cold had snuck in while they were below. The wind had picked up from the east, irritatingly blowing his short wet spikes flat against his head.

"We'd better hurry up, Sam!" Dean called down. He watched as his younger brother worked the crowbar against the seal of the lid, pulling with the muscles of his forearms effortlessly. Dean's eyes constricted. He had never seen Sam work that fast before on a seal. He unscrewed the cap off the salt can from up above, still quietly watching as Sam reached over with one powerful arm and pulled the front part of the lid open.

Valentina Mondalvo was put to rest in a pretty blue dress, collar buttoned up to her neck. She had numerous gold chains adorning her, most with a cross, or a locket, or a symbol of Christ to protect her soul as she entered into the next life. She held a picture of her children in her left hand and the Holy Bible in her right. Her hair had been longer when she died, always kept beautifully fashionable, but now it looked like dark straw as it splayed away from her bones and splattered across the silky white satin of her forever bed.

Then there was her abdomen. It was slightly distended under the blue cotton. Acting as a lifelong shroud for Val's last treasure. Her last gift she would have given the world if only…

Dean blinked and swallowed hard. He tried to block out the memories of Val and her children, coming to the tavern when Sam was sick or when Dean was injured or when dad felt the need to do some "no reason" research. Val hadn't made the best impression on the older son. When Sam was sick, Dean barely had a recollection of her; but when they had returned, she scared the crap out of him.

He blanked out the memory, pushed away the recollection of how lovely the woman once was and got to business. He poured the salt over her body, starting with her head and ending with her feet as Sam un-jarred the bottom portion of the lid.

The wind kicked it up a notch and Dean eyed the can of accelerant on the other side of the gravesite. He dropped the empty salt container and started to walk around the open grave when his eye caught a faint apparition heading towards him.

Its presence took the hunter off guard. It wasn't flickering or suddenly appearing in front of him. It was charging up the muddy hill like a mother coming for her lost child. It wasn't fully visible, either. It was dim and faded, almost like it was trying to be a real, solid person as it forged up the mound towards the hunters.

"Honey!" She called to Dean, her tongue thickly accented. Her left hand pointed at him with a pale, bony finger.

Dean's head turned slightly over his shoulder and he realized, horrified, that he was actually checking to see if he was the one she was talking to. He turned back around, giving her his full attention.

"No, no, honey. Don'. Don' do dat."

"Sam?" Dean called down, hurrying around the open grave, grabbing up his sawed-off. "Think we got company."

Sam looked up, over the recently dug ground, seeing his brother taking aim with his gun. "Shit," he muttered, trying to find his footing to climb out of the grave.

The blast echoed against the hillside as Dean let the rock salt fly from the barrel, his shoulders hitching back from the release. The homemade cartridge skidded by the diminished form as she quickly ducked and the ghost only increased her speed, soft hands coming out in front of her body as the hunter tried to rack the gun again.

She had already reached Dean, though, and grabbed at him in an odd hold. Her body nearly crashed into him as she looked up and pleaded with him, her eyes searching his face. "Please." She gave Dean's jacket a light shake.

For being so tiny, the first thing he noticed was how strong she really was. The line on his forehead deepened slightly. He tried to move his hands between them to gain the room he needed to bring the shotgun up.

She shook her head. "I… can't."

He thought he could actually feel her breath on his face and for a moment Dean wondered if this was a ghost at all. She seemed so real. Full of human wants and needs. In need of help, wanting, well he wasn't quite sure what she might want... but Dean felt something inside of him start to dissolve and for a second, he thought maybe he and Sam were on the wrong track.

Out of his periphery, he could see Sam's head start to bob up out of the six-foot hole and his long arms were grasping at muddy purchase to pull himself out.

Val's eyes widened. "You smell that?" she whispered and Dean's heart skipped a beat pounding against his ribcage. He shoved at the tiny spirit and gripped the sawed-off tight.

It was too late. The small ghostly hands were already in action, thrusting against the hunter's chest and sending him flying backwards through the air. There was a crushing thud as Dean's body came crashing down flesh on stone.

"Dean!" Sam called out as he emerged from the pit below. He lost the rest of his breath and his words somewhere in the air as the apparition made contact with the younger man and her whitish eyes narrowed at him in recognition.

-0-

_August, 1990_

John had visited Ben's house the next day. The bartender had taken his wife and daughter out for a Saturday matinee while the hunter cased the joint. John had went through with an EMF detector, methodically checking each room – especially the bathroom – and had come back empty handed. If anything had been there, it wasn't showing its face any longer.

Ben wasn't surprised by the findings. He had his doubts that anything supernatural had caused his son's death. He was sticking to what he knew, what the police reports had said, "It was just a freak accident."

The Winchesters had stayed through the weekend while John poked around a little more. He had taken his boys up the hill, had gone to the off-white stone with the praying hands and had stood a long time while Sam shooed away birds and tried to convince Dean to play with him and his Army men.

Dean had ignored him though, half his attention on his father. The other half on a cute little red head riding her bike at the bottom of the hill.

"Dean!" John shouted. "Get over here!"

Dean's attention snapped back as fast as his neck had. He looked down, not even realizing he had wandered over to the drop off. He looked down. It was a long ways to the bottom.

"Dean!" John yelled again.

His father's hand was waiting as Dean approached and without asking, he placed John's journal in his open palm. John wrapped his fingers around it and started flipping through pages. He had already walked around the perimeter of the gravesite at least a dozen times, noting and mumbling to himself. Nothing surrounding it was dead or dying. There were flowers growing, birds chirping, the grass was green and, besides the tracks of mud, it was easy to walk around. No oddities.

So when Sunday came, John had their bags packed and was ready to blow the joint again. He had given his respects and sympathies to the men. He had written down his new phone number and had emphasized that they could call under any circumstance.

The bartenders had agreed, they were grateful for his time. Ben had answered all his questions and had almost felt bad for the hunter as he came away with no answers. It was almost like John had a stake in the death of Ben's only son. Like there was a connection to himself that he wasn't sharing, that he _needed_ to find something that he hadn't.

Peanut Butter and Jelly was what stalled him.

"I'm hungry," Dean complained for the fifth time since they had zipped up their duffels.

It was close enough to lunchtime and Jeff brought out some bread, a jar of Skippy and some grape jelly. He didn't even ask, just started putting together a couple of quick sandwiches. He pulled out two paper plates and ripped open a package of potato chips from a cabinet behind the bar.

John smiled and waited. Until Jeff put a PB&J in front of him. "Got to keep fueled up, Winchester," the longer haired Timmons' commented.

Half way through his sandwich he heard the door scrape and scruff along the wood floor. A hot midday breeze blew inside the bar. John swiveled on the seat of his stool and saw the outline of Valentina's small body coming in from the heat.

She swished her hips in an odd waddle and John's eyes fell to her middle. Her white shirt flowed loosely around her growing stomach, but knowingly hugged all the right places. Her dark skin looked sun soaked, radiating a copper hue and she shifted her brown eyes around the bar in search of someone.

"Where's Benny?" her tongue was coated with accent.

The peanut butter and jelly got stuck in John's throat. She didn't have the wild, untamed look in her eyes as she had the previous time he had seen her. This look was distraught. Destroyed. Delusional.

A dark haired girl sprang from behind the small woman, gold chains wrapped around her neck, and John's eyes focused on the pre-teen. Ramona had grown tall, probably a foot taller than Dean, her body maturing faster than her face. She still had her baby fat cheeks, her chestnut round eyes and John felt a small smile tickle the corners of his mouth at her pre-puberty awkwardness.

"He's in the back," Jeff answered. "He'll be around in a minute."

Val was nodding and wobbling up to the bar. She reached down and pulled a stool out, hefting her small ass on top of the worn cushion. The load she was carrying in front rested heavily on her lap. She folded her hands and watched as Ramona went to the jukebox to play a song. The child stopped at the machine, though and was staring back at the counter, looking at the boys eating their sandwiches.

It wasn't everyday she saw a kid her own age rolled up to the bar.

Valentina's eyes followed her daughter's gaze. Her eyes danced from one boy to the other. Then she stopped and stared at John.

He nodded and tried to smile, without showing her that he was still chewing. But her stare turned into a glare and John felt a sudden change in the air around them. A coolness snagged on his forearms and his hairs pricked on end.

"You." She spoke to the man on her left.

John swallowed hard, his hand extending towards her. "John Winchester – "

"You smell that?"

John paused. He inhaled a few seconds and tipped his head to the right. "Peanut butter?" he volunteered.

Her eyes swayed to the boys and then back again. "I remember you." Her voice dripped with her heritage, her R's rolling from the roof of her mouth, her Y's getting lost at the beginning of her words.

John nodded. "Right. We met a few years ago."

"El Segundo de Mayo." She frowned at the man, her eyes filling with moisture.

John sighed. This was the reason he had avoided Val. Her son. His son. They had been born on the exact same day. The exact same year. They were the exact same age. He knew she was fragile and he didn't want her getting confused, comparing apples with oranges. He didn't want this to be more difficult on her than it already was.

He didn't want it to be difficult on him, either.

She was on her feet before he had the opportunity to delay her, let alone affirm her statement.

She passed Dean and stood behind Sam, her body leaning towards the small bow of his back. She peered over his shoulder and watched as he went on about eating his sandwich, oblivious to how close she really was.

John stood just behind Val, curiously eyeing her. He noticed the rigidity of her body, the way her arms folded around herself, the way her legs were bent at the knees like she could take off and run at any moment.

"I'm sorry," John's baritone voice rumbled behind her.

A small hand anxiously splayed on her chest and she spun around. "What?" Her eyes darted from John and then to her daughter, who stood quietly behind him.

John waited a few seconds, letting her take in a calming breath or two. "I'm sorry. I heard about Angel."

Sam had turned around during the commotion, his hands and face covered in grape jelly. His eyes were soft and young and confused as he looked up at his father.

"Dean," John instructed, keeping his eyes on Valentina, "why don't you take Sam on into the bathroom and help him wash up."

The older boy jumped down and tugged on Sam's shirt as they made their way down the small hallway, passing Ben in the process. His eyes widened as he first saw his daughter, knowing if she was here, that meant Val wasn't too far away.

"Hola, sucre," he said as he entered the room, a plastic smile on his face, his hand on Val's wrist, a man trying to hold it all together as he pulled her gently away.

She scowled at him.

"Ramona," Ben went on, keeping his body pressed against Val's, "you go on to the back, too. Make sure those boys have a clean towel." His eyes didn't move as his daughter shuffled around the trio. He didn't take a breath until he heard her knock on the small bathroom door adjoined to the bedroom. "Valentina – "

"You smell that?"

Ben released her wrist and thrust her stiffly away from him. "What?" He sniffed loudly, filling his head with the scents in the room. "Peanut butter? Beer? Piss?" He shook his head. "What is it that you _think_ you smell?"

The woman blinked back at him and John noticed how small she suddenly looked. Meek. Scared. Her chest heaved in time to the long, deep breaths she was taking and her lips parted slightly as she muttered, "Sulfur."

"Sulfur?" Ben bellowed. "Again?"

"The boy –"

"He's dead." Ben's voice was sharp, a knife cutting through his anger, through his pain. "We've been through this. I smelled him. There was never any sulfur –"

"Not Angel." She looked down the hallway. "That… that boy."

"Which boy?" John asked, genuinely interested.

"Don't do this, Val," Ben begged. "Don't make him-"

"El pequeño."

John was nodding at her and Ben's jaw dropped to allow more air into his shocked system.

"The little one?"

She nodded at the hunter. A small silent tear ran down her sculpted cheek.

Ben tilted his head. "Hey, John…" he gestured towards the small seating area of the bar, away from Valentina. "Could I just talk to you –"

John obliged and sidestepped with the man as Val took her wide-open opportunity to bolt down the hallway.

www

When Dean opened up the tiny door from the tiny bathroom, two people greeted him and Sam. The first was Ramona who was being pushed forward by the second person, her mother.

"Inhale," Valentina was telling her. "You smell that?"

Ramona's eyes looked frightened as she approached the boys timidly. Dean met her shocked expression as she nervously took a deep breath in through her nose.

Dean was immediately on alert. He stopped in his tracks and fisted Sam's shirt in his hand. "Stop, Sam." Then he let out a breath as his brother stilled and Dean contemplated what to do next.

"Ramona, close your eyes and smell again," Val was saying to her daughter, her R's rolling along the roof of her mouth and Dean watched with quiet horror as Ramona complied.

The girl's eyes squeezed tightly shut and she breathed in deep. There was a moment as her eyes opened where Dean glanced to the door, calculating how many steps it would take him to get out. And then how many it would take if he were dragging his brother behind him.

"It's okay," Val's voice crept in, seeming to read the older boy's thoughts. She reached her small hand out to Dean and let her fingers graze his shoulder. "Your father sent me in to get your brother." She smiled wide and beautiful. "It's okay."

Dean didn't let go of Sam's shirt but he was staring at her and before he realized it, Val bypassed the older brother's shoulder and grabbed hold of Sam's.

"Dean?" Sam squeaked out as the small woman wrapped cold fingers around Sam's forearm and drew him to the bed with her.

There was knocking and kicking at the door to the bedroom. Dean could hear John screaming his name. Ben was scrambling, his fist pounding on the door, demanding Valentina to _Open the goddamn door right now!_

"Dad!" Dean rushed out into the bedroom, slamming into Ramona who was acting as interference.

Then Dean skidded to a stop. He wanted his dad in there with them, he heard the pounding against the door but the pounding of his own heart halted him. There on the bed was his brother with Valentina. She had him laid flat on the mattress, her pregnant body sitting next to him and she was cooing to him in Spanish, talking softly, soothing him. "Duerme, niño."

Dean started again for the door. Get his dad inside and he could get them both out, but Val's words were entrancing. He felt his body freeze, his feet unmoving and he watched as she pressed her heart shaped lips against Sam's forehead and kissed him.

Then she took her petite, graceful hand and placed it over the child's nose and mouth, pressing all her weight into the seal.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, his feet suddenly able to move, his body flailing towards the bed. He could hear his father's muffled shouts, he could hear Ramona's screams and he could hear his heartbeat speed up.

He was losing Sam.

His hands were extended from his body as he smacked into Valentina, but she stayed with his brother. Her hand didn't slip, her voice dropped low and she kept a constant chant near his ear.

Sam's body was shaking. His legs kicked, his arms grabbed weakly at hers, his chest barreled from the lack of oxygen. Dean's own vision started to swim as his head pulsated hot blood to his temple, the _thrum thrum _of his heart rattling against all his small pulse points. Only one beat played in the back of his mind.

Save Sam.

The door was kicked in by a large black boot and Dean found himself suddenly thrown onto the dirty floor, looking up to his father scooping up Sam's body from Val's clutches. The woman was crying, screeching at the large man, clawing at Ben as his hands tried to contain her.

"Val." Ben's face crashed into hers, a pained expression that had everyone looking away. "Why?"

But she was screaming and falling to the dusty wood floor. Her eyes locked on Ramona's as her daughter fell with her, crawling on her knees to her mother. Val skittered away from her love like he was the enemy and wrapped her arms around her only family and sobbed into the young girl's alarmed body.

"What the hell just happened?" John's voice boomed into the small room.

Ben looked over with sad green eyes and thumped the side of his skull.

-0-

_March, 2009_

Sam squinted his eyes. There was something right in front of him and one moment he could see it and then the next he couldn't. He watched as it seemed to sway and turn. It focused on him and Sam became more alert. The hairs on the back of his neck pulled tight and his stomach churned. He tucked his legs underneath him and stood beside the open grave, looking straight ahead. It looked like a ghost, but it moved smooth as a human would. It wasn't like most of the spirits he had ever seen, it didn't flicker from one spot to the next, it held substance. Her body was pale, her hair was dark but her eyes… they were so pastel, they looked almost white.

That's what made his stomach change from churning to clenching. Something inside of him sparked. Something turned on and ticked-tocked, ticked-tocked to a clock that he had concealed under layers of skin and bones. His vision tunneled and all he could see was the apparition. It could be the moment he'd been waiting for. It could be _her_. Lilith. Right here on this hillside. It would be just like a demon to catch him with his pants down around his ankles. No help from Heaven or Hell, nothing but the Winchesters on a routine hunt.

Sam's arm extended out in front of him, palm forward. His eyes closed and he muted out all sound. He slowed his heart rate, slowed his breathing and he envisioned Lilith. He shut his mind down to everything but _her_. How he pictured _her_. Not the little girl she rode, not a blonde haired Ruby. But Lilith. Grotesque and unnatural and hideous.

And bloody.

Sam felt a force step up next to him and his eyes fluttered open. His arm bent towards his body and his hands came up together and pushed at the thing that he thought was Lilith. His eyes broadened and his ears spliced back with the rush of sound around him as he realized too late that this was not a demon he was dealing with.

A faltering vision of a small Latina woman engulfed the space next to him as his head was being secured in a vice grip and a pressure was being unwillingly locked over his nose and mouth. He tried to gasp, tried to take in desperate air, but all he received was a firm shake.

The world quickly spun in blues and grays above. His knees buckled and Sam felt himself being eased to the grass and the mud, his upper torso falling back to the earth. His eyes filled with heat as his blood raced through his veins, trying to find a reprieve, an escape from this prison cell.

He felt a cool sensation rub up against his hot cheek and press close. He thought he heard a breath and so badly wanted that to be him, inhaling and exhaling so freely and boundless. His eyes quivered towards the end and his heart hammered and stuttered simulateneously and he wondered if he really wasn't all that special after all.

Then an icy breath of air pressed against his ear and it tickled and kissed and whispered, "Conchita."

-TBC-

**Translation: **El Segundo de Mayo: The second of May

Hola, sucre: Hello, sugar

El pequeño: The little one.

Duerme, niño: Sleep, baby

_Get Drunk and Be Somebody_ performed by Toby Keith


	5. Dirty Old Town

**Disclaimer:** Refer to Chapter One.

**A/N:** Ah, off to see what happened after Val's spirit shows up. Glad to see there are some people still out there reading it and that it's not getting too boring yet. **MAZ**, thanks for your support – I hold you close to my heart, just like a good bra. And **youthere**, thanks for your wonderings… you make me laugh. If you guys want to check out a few great drabbles, give her a try. She tells an amazing story in 100 words.

**Chapter Five: Dirty Old Town**

_March, 2009_

There is fact that is often forgotten between the hysteria and frenzy about people who sustain mild to moderate concussions: the brain doesn't stop working. Millions and millions of neurons, which normally would be going about the day in regular lazy form suddenly come to a quivering life. Synapses fire on demand, faster and stronger than before. Fibers and axons try desperately to connect with their mate, most running through thousands of mismatches until that one connection melds. The brain will work to keep the human body in the realm of reality. It will continue to push through all the haze, through all the pain, through all the memories until it finds light again. Because the only thing that can get through the crazy maze of the mind is the mind.

And when it does, sometimes things aren't exactly what they appear to be.

Dean's eyes fluttered open. Slits of gray clouds obscured his vision when he turned his head and he was bombarded with a blur of dark and light gray speeding by. He closed his eyes just as fast and swallowed hard, willing the nausea to pass, pretending he didn't feel a rise in his throat, pretending the rain wasn't chilling him to the bone. His mind was working overtime, trying to bring him back from the black. Through the tangles and cobwebs, there was one thought that was bringing him into the now.

He was losing Sam.

_I don't know when it happened._

Each morning that he woke up was just another day closer.

_Maybe when I was in Hell._

Each night that he went to sleep was another day wasted.

_Maybe when I was staring right at you._

The punch line, though, was Sam was losing Dean.

_But the Sam I knew, he's gone._

And he thought one of them… didn't even care.

Dean blinked again. This time it was so hard that it made his already lined frown deepen over the bridge of his nose. He could hear a commotion. Sounded like a gurgle, maybe thumping. He knew he had to open his eyes back to the twirling of the world to see what was happening. His eyes pulled open, his upper lids slowly ungluing from his lower lids.

Black. Cold. A perfect fit. His sawed-off. Clutched in his hands. Dean lifted his eyes even more, looking into the distance to where the grappled, muffled sound was coming from. There was the odd apparition in his line of sight. It moved fluidly, its form gaining substance by the minute. He could see a hand wrapped around his brother's head and another smashed into his face. Dean squinted because that didn't make sense. It couldn't be right. He could see Sam – and then two of Sam – as his vision focused in and out. His brother's long body was laying on the muddy ground, soggy from the rain still falling down. His legs were tucked behind him, his arm bent, trying without success to unleash himself from the ghostly form.

Oh, God. Dean blinked again. He was losing Sam.

And without knowing it was happening, his synapses started finding their mates and began firing electricity back and forth. A perfect beat started to strum from his memory. The boom-boom of a drum, the classic southern tweak of a guitar, vocals that were smooth and bluesy and Dean gripped his gun.

"Got my pistols in my pockets," Dean breathed, taking aim at the solidifying form, "I'm Alabama bound." He pushed himself up on his elbows, the barrel trembling a bit as he squinted, "I'm not looking for no trouble but nobody dogs me 'round." He pulled the trigger. There was a short unearthly gasping sound and the figure vanished into the air.

There was a few seconds after the shotgun fired where Dean wasn't sure if he had slipped back into oblivion or not. He certainly wasn't _there_, wasn't himself. The pain in his brain was hot and cold at the same time and stole his breath away.

His head fell to the dirt and mud. He had to wait it out and let his forehead feel the temperature change of the cold wet ground before he could right himself again.

After that it took about every reserve of energy he had to get up. He pushed hard, even though his arms were protesting, they wobbled and shook but he pressed on. His legs moved sluggishly and his knees knocked but he sucked in a breath and made it the short distance to his brother.

Sam's body lay still, his eyes shut despite the water still falling on him. His head rolled slowly to the left, away from Dean and a childlike moan escaped his lips.

"Sam?" Dan leaned down. His hand pressed on Sam's shoulder and he shook the younger man, firm but gentle.

A long breath inhaled through a wheezy windpipe and Dean pulled away. Ambivalence was a tricky concept. Should he stay or should he go? Dean watched Sam guppy in a few more breaths and once Dean was satisfied, he looked over to the can of gasoline.

He unscrewed the cap and chugged a good amount of the accelerant over the nicely dressed bones of Valentina Mondalvo. He searched his jeans pocket for the matchbook, happy he'd put them in a plastic bag first, and he struck it against his fingernail. He walked around the gravesite, dropping in a few more matches until the fire took and roared quickly to life in a lively 'fwuump' sound. He felt the ground tilt, felt the heat on his body as the fire flickered hungrily up towards the sky. But Dean stayed steady on his feet.

And he never took his eyes off of Sam.

He waited patiently as he watched the color return to his brother's cheeks and felt his own breathing ease. He had to bite his bottom lip as Sam tried to open his eyes, tried to let the happenings around him filter in. He wondered if he was looking for his big brother, but he didn't really want to know the answer. Dean wasn't sure he could deal with that much honesty just yet.

He stopped his boot from catching Sam's side as he rolled himself up, coming close to the flames of the salt and burn. He thought it was funny that before they left the bar it was Dean who had accused Sam of wanting to do the job alone.

_You're holding me back!_

"Dean? You okay, man?"

_I'm a better hunter than you are._

Dean glared, his face forming a question. Was he the pot or the kettle? "I'm swell, Sam."

_Stronger._

Dean watched as Sam rolled over on all fours, trying to figure out the best way to get off the slippery slope he had gotten himself on. He made it to his knees and turned to look at his brother.

_Smarter._

Dean swayed. Sam was really, really looking at him.

"You sure?"

One quick swallow and Dean nodded. "Yeah. Course."

Sam wrapped his hands around a smaller tomb marker and shoved himself up. He turned, his eyebrows wrinkling his forehead. "Dude," Sam said casually, "You look kind of green."

Dean tilted his head and felt his chin tremble.

Sam was pointing at him, his finger waggling in the air. "You're bleeding."

Dean's hand automatically went up to his head. Well, wasn't that the shit. His palm came back bloody. He reached down and felt the trickle of red all the way down his neck. "Damn."

Sam nodded in acknowledgement. "I'll need to stitch that up for you."

It was said harmlessly. No hidden meaning behind it. Just a suggestion. An offer. Of course, Sam's brother had better hearing these days. Not much was getting by him.

"_You_ will?" Dean started gathering up the empty metal cans. He glanced down into the grave and watched the fire burn down. The dress was gone, the necklaces were charred, the bones were leaving behind ash. "I think I can handle a few stitches myself."

Sam's neck twitched and he turned away. Dean felt a small twinge from inside twist into a knot and he really wished he could stop putting his foot in his mouth. Verbal and nonverbal, everything was dripping from them like toxins. He heard Sam huff, blowing the recent round off and it only made Dean's blood boil all over again. They were both getting really good at walking away from their words.

"Fire's about gone," Sam began. "We should start to-"

Dean tossed a sarcastic look at his brother. "Yeah. First, you get your ass down there and close the casket back up."

He waited for Sam to make the sore trip six feet down under again. Dean noticed the pants his brother made, the way his lips pursed together and how calmly he blew breaths out. He noticed the way Sam moved, not exploding with power as before. Now he just looked… tender.

Sam slipped more than once trying to find his footing as he climbed back out of the grave and by the time he stood next to his brother, all he got was a shovel thrown at him.

Dean scooped up an ample amount of dirt and threw it over the opening. It fell in a thud against the lid of the coffin, the rain continuing to come down.

"Now what?" Sam asked as he worked his shoulders into the groove and started a silent dirt race with Dean.

Dean didn't slow down. He felt a fresh bleb of blood run duo trails along the side of his face. "Job's done."

"Yeah?" Sam sounded unconvinced.

"Salt and burned."

"Yeah."

It was never, ever a salt and burn, though, and Dean knew that. "Now we can drink."

Sam nodded. "Sure, man."

"And then we can get out of this dirty old town."

Dean's eyes dulled as he looked over the open tomb. Sam stared back at him, his right hand clutching the shovel, his hair matted to his head from the rain. His mouth was pulled into a tight bow of a grimaced smile. The tension was building again, thick like fog, making it hard to breath around the drizzle falling from the sky.

Dean tried to smile back but it died before it ever had a chance. He found himself running to his right, grabbing hold of the crumpling fence and throwing up all over little Angel's grave.

-0-

_August, 1990_

Valentina was still in the back bedroom, clutching Ramona. Ben had remained behind trying to calm her down. Trying to understand what had happened and why.

Dean wanted to get the hell out of the tavern and as far away as they could. They were already packed. They'd eaten lunch. They'd cleaned up. He'd kinda watched someone try to kill Sam.

But John was sitting at the bar, talking to Jeff. He was asking questions, sipping on a beer, and tapping the pad of his fingertip to the beat of the music.

_Gimme three steps, gimme three steps, mister/Gimme three steps toward the door_

Dean cleared his throat impatiently, trying to no avail, to get his father's attention. He was standing near the open entrance, Sam at his side, the end of his brother's coat balled tightly in his hand.

_Gimme three steps, Gimme three steps, mister/And you'll never see me no more_

For sure. It was time to go.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was small and scared. He sounded tired, nervous.

Or maybe that was what Dean was feeling. Dean's knees trembled. Sometime he really hated being the voice of parental reasoning. "We're leaving, Sammy," he promised. "Dad's just wrapping up."

"You don't think this is all crazy talk, do you?" Jeff was asking and John shook his head no. The longhaired guy nodded back. "I don't know how to help him," he said honestly. "He can't just kick her out. Can't let her go out there like this. She'll never survive. She needs help. Medication." Jeff hesitated. "She needs love."

Dean could see the door down the hallway being closed and Ben was rushing out into the open bar. He had a cell phone in his hand and was talking in hushed tones, asking someone to hurry as he glanced over in a controlled panic to the counter, almost startled to see the Winchesters were still there.

"I gotta go," he said clearly and snapped the phone shut. His eyes narrowed. "What're you still doing here?" He gestured in the direction of the boys. "Get your kids and go."

John swiveled on the stool and locked eyes with the man. "I was thinking maybe I'd stick around and help you."

Dean's eyes widened. His mouth opened in objection. He wanted to scream _We almost lost Sam! _but Ben beat him to it.

"Help me _what_? She just tried to snuff out your kid!"

John almost smiled at that. "I don't think she's nuts. I think something-"

"You think something killed my boy. You think something's possessing Val or driving her-" Ben stopped and looked down, his hands fisting at his sides. He let out a hot breath and looked back up. "Sometimes people are just crazy."

"Let me talk to her."

"No."

"Why?" John was challenging now, pressing for more information or pushing until the guy broke.

"Because she's not RIGHT!" he shouted, the last word bouncing off the thin walls.

John's eyes narrowed at the man. "About what?"

Everything was silent, save the music playing. John waited them out.

"About," Jeff's voice was calm and cool and Ben was glaring at him over John's shoulder, "about Angel."

"Shut-up. I swear to God or I'll shut you the fuck up-"

"What about Angel?" John's neck craned, but his body stayed square with Ben.

"She said-"

Ben shook his head.

"Angel was murdered."

Dean's eyes widened even more and he looked down at his brother. Sam was watching intently, his head rotating from left to right, following the men's conversation. He was following along without needing any explanation of what was being said.

"By what?" John moved on. It wasn't a who, he was sure of that.

Ben dropped his death glare with his brother and looked back at the hunter. "Look, she's… she's having a hard time. With this baby coming-"

"Yeah I kind of noticed. You know, you never mentioned she was pregnant again," John interrupted.

Ben shuffled his feet. His eyes were down cast; his shoulders were sagging. His entire world was resting all its crazy weight on him and his back looked like it could crack at any moment.

"Baby's not exactly a happy event," he said quietly, his eyes on this shoes. "Besides, she's insane."

"Maybe not."

"She's talking crazy. It _can't_ be real."

"Maybe it is."

"My father died doing what you do. My mother died because of it." Ben gulped. "I know there are things out there. Spirits and ghosts. Werewolves and black dogs. I know there's evil out there. But what she thinks-"

"What does she think it was?"

Ben shook his head, his hands unfisted and now presented palms up in a desperate plea. "A demon?" He stared at John hard. "But my dad he always said they weren't real. He never saw one."

John gave a small, understanding nod. "Doesn't mean they're not real." He waited a moment for that to sink in, his eyes landing across the bar at his two boys, both waiting for their father to come back to them. Always on different sides of the room. "She say what it looked like?" he asked, not taking his eyes off his sons.

"No." Ben's answer was quick. "I don't know if she actually _saw_ anything. But she said… he… had yellow eyes."

"Not black?" John turned his attention to the bartender again.

The man shrugged. "She said yellow. She sees yellow everywhere now."

John let out a long sigh. "A demon with yellow eyes? I'll have to look into that one. Talk to Murphy or Singer – "

"No, not the demon." Ben shut his eyes, shaking his head, trying to focus on his words. Deciphering Val's wild assessment of what she _believed_ happened and what _actually_ happened and no one would ever know what _really_ happened anyways. "She thinks that a demon or a devil… changed our Angel. She found sulfur in his nursery when he was a baby."

"What?" John's voice was sharp and curt like he was just stabbed in the heart.

Dean felt his body rise to attention, his muscles became even more taught under his skin than before. His Dad's eyes were digging into the bartender's words. The older son could only watch and wonder where his Dad's memory had wandered to.

_Real evil came to you. It walked this house._

"She said some_thing_ had been there but she never saw anything. Just this yellow dust." Ben shrugged. "I had a guy come in and check the vents and the heating unit, but it all checked out okay. It had been cold out, the windows were up. I don't know where it came from." He paused a few seconds and then sighed, "But then Val started seeing things."

"Like what?" John held his breath.

"I guess… there were times where she'd look at Angel and his eyes would flash yellow – just for a second. Then they'd be back to normal. And he smelled. Like sulfur."

Dean thought his dad looked white. Scared, ghost white. He didn't blink. He didn't look anywhere. He just became a statue. Dean wanted to throw a rock at him and break him into a million pieces right then. What the hell was he doing? They needed to get out of there right now!

"You think Angel drowned?"

Ben nodded. "Yes. I do."

"You think it was accidental?"

Ben kept nodding. "Yeah."

"You don't think something came into the bathroom-"

Then his head was shaking. "No."

"You don't think that maybe there was a demon-"

"No." His voice was strong, steadfast, non-wavering.

"Why?"

The door cracked open then and Ramona came running down the short corridor, Valentina close behind. The Latina was indescribably beautiful, her hair swept elegantly away from her face, her skin flawless, despite the recent tears. Even her baby bump was put to good use, actuating her hips.

Through the beauty, she looked ragged, though. Like she had been washed on an old washboard and hung to dry. Her nerves were screaming as her body came to a jittery halt and she focused on Ben.

"Who'd you call?" she demanded, words clear accented with anger.

"Someone who can help."

"No."

Ben looked at her. "We need-"

"No more doctora." She stood with her hands on her hips, facing Ben when her head suddenly turned and her nasal passage breathed in heavily.

"Val-"

"He's still here."

Ben grabbed her shoulders, his hand losing the grip. "It's not Angel!" He yelled.

Val moved across the room swiftly, Ben directly behind her, John at his side.

Dean shoved his brother behind his back and clumsily backed them both away from the adults rushing towards them until they hit the wall. He felt Sam fold his arms inwards, clutching at the back of Dean's shirt, holding on.

Val's hands reached Dean and she yanked hard on his forearms, shifting his body away from the younger boy. The men's thick arms were enveloping her now and she was being pulled back, still holding on to Dean as he started to slide away from his brother. Sam's body pulled along with the shirt and it was a tug-of-war where the ones with the most muscle power were easily going to win.

Valentina took in a deep, disturbed breath, rasping down her throat and then released a cry out into the bar. She knotted the ends of Dean's shirt in her white knuckled fists and shrieked, "Conchita!"

Ramona pushed off from the table she was leaning against and ran over to the bulk of people pushing and pulling in the center of the room. She heard her uncle shout her name as she ran, her tall lanky form bringing up the back. She straddled her body behind the youngest of the growing crowd and held her hands over his nose and mouth.

John Winchester broke his hold on Ben. His eyes soaked in the horrendous sight of the awkward twelve-year-old holding a death grip on his Sam. Her face was scrunched into a mass of frowns and wrinkles as she pulled back on the young boy, holding him tight against her body.

John's large hand landed on her tiny shoulder and she looked up at the hunter, her dark eyes full of disdain glaring at him. He shook his head at her once and quietly reached his other hand around her body, removing the seal she has secured on Sam's face with an audible pop. "Conchita," he whispered firmly, "don't do that."

Ramona took in a series of quick gasps of air, her small ribcage rising and falling fast. Her eyes flew from the back of Sam's head to his father's eyes and she turned to run, only to be engulfed in the arms of her uncle. The sobs soaked through Jeff's shirt on impact.

Val was still screaming. She had released Dean and was kicking and punching at Ben. Her body coiled and bucked in his hold as she glowered at Sam.

"Go!" Ben was yelling, trying to keep his frenzied girlfriend in place, but her small body thrashed hard in his grip and it wasn't going to be long before he couldn't contain her.

Ramona peeked over at the boys and started screaming. Her arms went loose and her body bent in half as she fell to the floor, taking Jeff with her. He looked up to the men, his hand resting on her back, soothing her as she continued to cry out in pain.

And then they were in the car, Jeff yelling his apologizes out the door to the family. Ben was fighting Val who was still in hysterics, her body forcing him out the door of the tavern and into the muddy road.

"Get outta here, Winchester!" Ben was shouting.

Dean pushed Sam over and scooted in beside him as John was hollering back that he was going and that he suggested no one leave Valentina alone.

"I'm done!" Ben was saying. "I can't do it anymore! I'm done."

And Val was quieting again, her tears drying on her face as she heard Ben's words. She couldn't hear John's pleas behind the man, telling him to reconsider. That she needed him that she didn't need to be thrown out, thrown away.

"Get out!" Ben demanded to the trio as John reluctantly got into the Impala and drove down the road away from the small tavern.

The last thing Dean remembered was Sam's thin voice climbing over the roar of the Chevy. "What did I do?"

-TBC-

**Translations: **doctora: doctor

**Playlist:** _Gimme Three Steps_ performed by Lynyrd Skynyrd

_Mississippi Kid_ performed by Lynyrd Skynyrd, recited by Dean Winchester to help him find his beat again.

_Dirty Old Town_ performed by the Pogues

**A/N:** Thanks again for reading. If you're still hanging out, I'd love to hear what you think!


	6. Brass Monkey

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Holy Cow. That was a finale, huh? I won't say anything else just in case there are virgin ears, but WOW. And that's why this show owns me. **MAZ101**, thanks for your "Er's…" She read this one twice, folks. It's because of her that it made it to this point. Any mistakes from her hands back to mine… well, I'll take the blame.

**Chapter Six: Brass Monkey**

_March, 2009_

He couldn't get the damn mud off his boots no matter how hard he tried.

Dean watched as Sam took his boots off outside the door of the bar and walked in with only his socks on, even though they were wet from the rain on the stairs. It only took two steps for them to get filthy underneath but he didn't seem to mind. Sam walked straight up to the counter and hoisted himself on a stool.

"Beer," he ordered in a raw voice. Jeff immediately obliged.

Dean barely raised an eyebrow at Sam, as he followed in with his own rain-soaked socks. He could feel his face pull down in a frown and tried to ignore the killer headache that was throbbing between his temples.

Sam clinked on his bottle to Jeff and a second beer was being popped open and slid across the counter top. For a quick second, Dean could have kissed them both.

"Fucking mud," he grumbled as he sat down next to Sam and wrapped his lips around the mouth of the bottle. He felt the room sway as his head tipped back, letting the cool liquid drain down his throat. "Damn," Dean breathed, allowing a moment to let the large drink settle. "Tastes good."

A clean white towel was being offered to him. An older hand was holding it and Dean took it without saying a word and it was released with only a breath exchanged. Jeff was staring at the fresh blood still running tracks down the side of Dean's face and he started to open his mouth –

"When the hell did it get so cold out there?" Dean threw a chink into Jeff's chain of thought. "It was fifty degrees yesterday and now it's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey."

Jeff traded impotent looks with Sam. There were times when words were useless and actions spoke louder. Jeff tied a handful of ice into a makeshift cold pack and handed it across the bar.

The ice felt cool, like the beer and was almost as soothing. Dean closed his eyes, giving his vision a break from seeing his world tilting. The colors of the bottles were starting to spin together and Jeff was becoming Jeffs but if he just shut his eyes for a little bit – just to rest – he'd be okay.

Sam was bumping his elbow. Dean's eyes blinked open, his right hand keeping the towel pressed to his temple. He glanced over to see that what had started as a small slant had turned into a full on lean against his brother.

He straightened up right away and refused to make eye contact. He knew Sam could see it. There was no way for Dean to hide the fact that he wasn't _right_ but for now he didn't need to be right. He needed to be strong or bigger or smarter or, Jesus, he just needed to be needed again.

"Hey, boys." A familiar voice came from behind them. Big Ben waddled his way up to the bar and sucked his gut around the small gap to the other side, where Jeff stood, waiting. "Gotta make that opening bigger." He rubbed his tummy and lifted droopy-lidded eyes to the brothers. "Well?"

"Well," Dean started, putting his half-empty beer down after only his second drink, "your ghost problem is history."

Ben and Jeff shared a surprised, incredulous look.

"That so?" Ben asked.

Dean bobbed his head. "Yep."

They all waited on the other to say something, to go into more details, to reassure, but no one was talking. Just the music in the background and a small Poker game of three in the corner behind the pool table. Draw or Stud. Too clustered to tell.

"You guys…" Jeff began, "are okay?"

Twin heads nodded back. "Who? Us?" Dean asked, his palm hitting the counter a little exaggerated. "We're great."

The Timmons brothers' eyes narrowed even more. Dean felt the uncertainty in the glares.

Sam cleared his throat. "Well, there was a close call or two."

"Yeah," Dean waved a casual hand, "but nothing we couldn't handle." He flashed a smile and felt like he might get sick again.

"All in one piece." Sam finished, plastering his own ill-fitting smile on.

"So," Ben's eyes swung to each of them as he flipped over a shot glass and poured himself a swig of a cheaper Scotch. "You boys are good?"

Their smiles couldn't have looked more phony if they'd been assembled out of wax, but they stayed stuck on their faces and they both nodded. "Yeah," they answered off key, offering a quick glance at each other and back to Ben.

Dean could tell he wasn't buying it. Still, Ben shrugged and turned over two more shot glasses, letting the Scotch pour more than a mouthful. "Then we got a celebration to drink to."

The noise from they boys in the corner escalated into playful shouts and hollers as one of the men stole the chips out of the middle. Dean took the small glass from Ben and held it up in salute to the card players and slammed it back.

Sam pushed his glass around a few times.

It was getting old pretending not to notice, but the fact that Sam wasn't drinking or eating much of anything lately was riding on Dean's nerves. It was on the tip of his tongue to call him on it. Tell him to grow up and stop playing cloak and dagger; to spill it, but he bit it back. Sam had told him how he had spent his summer vacation and Dean had listened. Dean had believed him. Dean had tried to understand. He even tried to be civil to Ruby. He didn't know at the time that it was only part of what had happened. He didn't know there was a double-edged sword at the end of the riddle and that Dean wasn't in on the joke.

So he smiled through it and acted like he didn't notice. Sam was so busy telling lies and keeping facts away from Dean that he didn't notice they were starting to surface on the outside. So Dean would wait. No matter how much Sam bent it, twisted it, and abused it, he would never be able to change the truth. And Dean knew it would all be revealed. He just had to be patient. Of course, just because he had to be patient didn't mean he had to be quiet.

There was a roar from the corner again and the card players were on their feet, pointing fingers in accusation. One dark haired man laughed and flashed his hand – a flush, maybe – and the others grouched out a few curse words in Spanish and sat back down.

Dean's eyes followed Jeff as he wandered over, bringing brews and chips. He was handed a wad of bills, which he stuffed in his front pocket without counting.

The flick of a lighter got his attention, though, and the barkeep was mumbling something that Dean hadn't picked up on. Maybe it was the booze, but he grinned back and accepted another shot. Dean's periphery caught Sam lifting his eyebrows as he shot the whisky back. And Sam kept staring.

"What?" Dean turned his head.

A hitch of the shoulders. "Nothin'."

Dean looked away first; Sam's eyes roamed in the opposite direction. But Dean still knew his brother was watching him. So he would have to try and ignore him even more.

Ben was eyeing both boys. His hand came up to his lips and he inhaled nervously. Maybe it was Dean's imagination, but the big guy looked like he didn't believe that they were clear of the ghost activity or that he didn't want to get his hopes up that it was gone. He blew a few cloudy vapors out his nose and quietly poured another round.

Two more shot glasses filled – Sam was obviously sitting this one out – when Dean felt a finger stab into his arm. He looked at Sam and blinked slow, giving his eyes a second to focus.

"Watch it," Sam warned. "You hit your head pretty hard."

Dean budged away a couple of inches, growling under his breath, "Why don't you just mind your own fucking business." Then instantly regretted his words, but didn't offer any apologies. He couldn't. The arch that was cemented between them now was worse than anything Dean had ever remembered. It was worse than after Dad had died. It was worse than finding Sam gone one day. It was worse than having his brother shoot him. It was worse than when Sam had died.

The bottles of booze were swirling again and Dean shook his head hard. _No_. He chewed on his bottom lip. Sam dying was definitely worse. This was just... unpredictable, inconvenient. Tough. Hard. Brutal. But it wasn't dark. Sam dying was darker than dark. It was death and beyond. It was Hell.

Jeff sidled up next to his brother and flipped his hair out of his face. He held his body close, his arms near his sides and one shoulder pointing to the other. His blue eyes gazed across the bar. They were past old, they were sad. So far away from being a kid that he barely held a memory of what it was like. He released a short sigh. "So, what was the close call? Or two?"

Dean's fingers stilled on the shot glass. He noticed Jeff and Big Ben were leaning nearer. Their intrigued, wrinkled faces waiting for the story, the music willing words in the background. Ben's hand reached for Dean's glass and brought it closer to him.

He felt Sam cringe.

"Hey, guys?" Dean asked, his whole body twitching as the gold liquid poured out. Sam's eye's slid over to his brother. Dean's words were sharp but his lips smacked together. He was there – Dean had hit a fuzzy buzz. He knew should be cutting himself off. "Up on the hill… what's the fence for?"

Everyone was quiet for a few seconds, clinking glasses and drinking fast together. Except Sam. "Well," Ben released a hearty breath, "that's the dividing post."

Dean's eyes ping-ponged from one brother to the other, but Sam's gaze stayed fixed on Ben.

"What is it?" Dean urged.

Big Ben scrubbed a stubby finger across his forehead. "The fence? It's been there for as long as I've lived here. It divides the cemetery. One side is for the residents. The other's for the illegals."

"The illegals?" Sam jumped into the conversation. Geek boy demon hunter finally found something that piqued his interest. "Illegal aliens?"

"Sure." Ben's shoulders jerked up and down.

"And Val was illegal?"

"Sure."

"You mean…" Sam pinched the bridge of his nose momentarily. "You buried Val on one side of the fence and Angel on the other?"

Dean listened as best as he could in his tipsy state. He thought hazily back to the layout of the graveyard. The one side of the post where the stones were sinking and broken strung along the mud, no one to care for them. The other side, newer and proud, more impressive.

Ben didn't seem to see the irony in this. He lifted his graying eyebrows, his green eyes looking icier somehow. "Right."

"Right?" Sam's voice raised an octave. "You don't see how _wrong_ that is?"

Dean pointed his finger, joining in. "And you never married her? Never tried to-."

"Just because you marry a US citizen doesn't make you a citizen," Ben interjected. "Besides, I tried. I proposed, bought her a diamond. But Val wasn't the marrying type. She told me to keep my ring and she'd keep her daddy's name." He sighed and stamped out his cigarette, almost immediately following it with another one. "All the towns around here have been living with Hispanics for years now. They found jobs at the plant, they accustomed real easy to our way of life and, you know, we don't mind 'em. They're our neighbors and our friends. Hell, I fell in love with one-" his voice deepened, projecting farther, "I fell in love with _two_ of them. But back in the day, they didn't have a lot of money. They buried their dead with what they could scrape together and a lot of them were buried in the older part. I don't know when, but the cemetery was… well, divided." He paused and took a long drag. "Besides, Val always said she wanted to be buried next to her baby. She's the one who chose the plot for him and there were only two sides to chose from. She wouldn't have minded being on the other side of the fence."

Dean glanced over at Sam and Sam was looking back. The older brother shook his head. "Grass is always greener on the other side," he muttered. He couldn't help but remember the spirit charging up the hillside. The plea. The way she called out to him, _"Honey."_ Maybe she had been haunting the place because of where she was buried. Because of _how_ she was buried.

Maybe it wasn't the fact that she was illegal. Maybe it was because she was a mother.

Their own mother hadn't been buried, she had burned. But she had a nice marker they could visit if they wanted. They could go, have a picnic with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and share a Coke and a smile with their backs nestled beside Mary Winchester's name.

Of course, Dean would never get out of the car. They'd already tried that Boy Scout adventure and all it got them was some unsaid words and Sam's chance to bury dad's dog tags into the ground.

He watched Sam fidget on the stool for a moment. His brother was lost in thought, placing puzzle pieces of the current hunt together, moving odd shapes around until they fit.

_Just a salt and burn, Sammy, let it go. _

He wondered if Sam ever came back to where he had buried Dean. Maybe he had visited. Brought flowers or maybe dug something into the dirt afterwards. Maybe that's where his _Physical Graffiti_ cassette had gone. He noticed it had gone missing during the time he was down under. His eyes narrowed at Sam. Maybe his brother had come to visit. Maybe he did dig. And maybe he just kept on digging down through the dirt and rocks of the shallow grave. All the way to the wood casket. Just to take a peek.

Dean looked away. One thing was for sure, he'd never know because he wasn't ever going to ask and Sam would never trust himself to share something so… well, Sam would just never tell.

-0-

_August, 1990_

She put her Ford Taurus into park and shut the ignition off. She ignored the way her St. Christopher medal jingled with the car keys, almost asking her not to forget them before she exited the car.

But she had no plans of exiting.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a tube of her favorite lipstick, Dirty Bitch Red, and adjusted the rear-view-mirror so she could see. She applied a bit more than she normally would, but her hand was shaking and she wanted to be sure the gloss stuck. She looked back into her purse and released a curse word. She was in such a hurry to leave, she must have forgotten the mascara.

"Mama. What're we doing here?"

Valentina's dark eyes flicked over at her daughter sitting in the passenger seat. She smiled big and grand at the girl, her teeth looking like a phantom in the dark.

Ramona shifted away from the sight.

"What, Conchita? What is it?"

The crickets were chirping noisily outside the passenger side window. It only seemed to aid Valentina into a macabre-calm tempo. She reached a small hand over to her child's face and let her fingers lightly browse her cheeks. Ramona flinched as Val pulled away, her hand sinking back into her purse. She started a low hum – a lullaby – she used to sing to her niños as babies. She needed Ramona to find her balance in the car and Val needed to sweep away her daughters growing anxiety.

The lullaby morphed from hums to tra-la-la's as items were brought out of her bag and placed on the dashboard. A statue of Mary, Mother of God; a picture of their family, minus Uncle Jeff; a gun.

"_A dormir, a dormir con tus amargos sueños_…"

Ramona's eyes stayed on the gun even though her mother was still pulling things out of her large bag.

"Mama." Her lips quivered and her voice cracked. Too many movies gone south playing across her frightened young face.

Val zipped up her purse and threw it behind her shoulder, into the pitch black of the backseat. She scooted closer to her daughter and placed a skinny finger to her lips. "Shhh. Let me talk."

Ramona's eyes had grown as round as the end of the revolver. Her mother wrapped a firm arm around her and placed the girl's hand on top of her mother's growing belly.

_Thump. Thump._

"_A dormir, a dormir con dulces pesadillas. A domir, a domir_."

Ramona sat quiet while the crickets chirped and her mother sang. The lullaby purposefully falling from her mother's lips in an effort to soothe; her unborn sibling's little kicks adding as a percussion to the melody.

"We have to go, honey." Her mother reached over and started turning the items on the dashboard.

"Go where?"

"Shh," she warned again. "We have to go. See your hermano. We can't stay with Benny no more." Val turned to her daughter and pulled her even closer to her petite body. Her abdomen rolled between them, following up with a series of impressive whumps. "You see, he don' love us no more. He's gonna throw us away-"

"What? How?"

"Shh." She patted Ramona's dark hair with her small hand and pressed her lips close to her daughter's ear. "Benny's going to send Mama away. Back with the doctora. And then, he's going to send you there, too." She closed her eyes and held Ramona for a moment. "So we must go and see Angel."

"But…" Ramona tried, the gun on the dashboard staring directly at her from where she sat. "Angel is dead."

"Oh, honey," Val lightly laughed, her hands gripping Ramona, her nails digging into her young skin. "What's dead isn't really dead. It still lives on. In us. And sometimes to find peace we need to find all the pieces."

She shifted in Val's arms. "But… Benny."

"I told you, Conchita. Benny don' love us no more. He's not part of our puzzle."

The grip Val had on her daughter was tight and she could see the child was finding it hard to breathe. Ramona's chest was rising and falling faster than normal and her eyes… her eyes couldn't stop watching that gun watch her. "Why do you have a gun?" Ramona asked her mother, swallowing hard as Val eased her hold on her a little.

"That is my just in case."

Ramona looked up. Val attempted unsuccessfully to soften her expression but it only seemed to alarm the girl more. "In case of what?"

In the distance, she heard it then. The long whistle of the 10:35 pm freight train. Ramona tried to sit back, but Val readjusted her grip on her. "You remember what I taught you. What's right and what's wrong."

Ramona's face was pressed against her mother's bosom and Val held strong to her. The _thump thumps_ were coming faster, stronger against the thin uterine wall separating them. Ramona took in a breath and frantically cried out, "I think this is wrong."

The clickety-clack of the train's wheels were sounding louder and the whistle blew again in a long howl. Ramona's small hands wedged between their bodies and she tired to push against Val as the train continued around the curve. There would be no way the conductor would see them in time. There would be no screeching of the brakes. There would be no close call.

"Mama."

Val's lips pressed up against her ear, the Bitchy Red lipstick rubbing off on Ramona's lobes. She mouthed words that her daughter was meant to take to her grave. She spoke what was in her heart, what she couldn't say to anyone in the world. She told secrets and truths and when she was empty, she hugged the child close and requested, "Say it again, Conchita."

Ramona released a sob and strangled in a breath. Her body racked with tears and exhaustion. She was trapped and she whispered it over and over, "Mama. Mama. Mama."

She never felt the hit of the train, only the force of the car in motion. She never felt the car crumpling into a mangled mess around her. Never felt the jagged metal of the driver's side door cut off her left leg. She never felt the slam of the Taurus on the rails. Never felt her head smash with it.

She would never know that her mother's body wrapped around hers was the only reason why she survived the accident in the first place.

-0-

_March, 2009_

"Well, if we really are rid of spirits 'round here," Ben started, eyeing the boys carefully.

Dean twitched an eyebrow. The guy was so cautious. "Dude, she's burned."

"Then I guess…" The man reached up with a grunt to a cabinet high above the bottles of booze and took out a small white box. He turned and grinned at his brother. "Guess I can give Gina this." He sprung the box open and shared the lone content inside with Jeff.

"Seriously?" His brother beamed back. Dimples gracing the corners of his cheeks. Sam couldn't remember ever seeing those before.

Ben turned the box around for the boys to see. A modest, but sweet round diamond caught the dim lights from above, shining back to the set of green eyes across the bar.

Something punched Sam in the gut and he found himself looking away, almost mad at himself for letting something so tiny and sparkly kick him like that. He closed his eyes for a second and took the beer in his hands, pulling hard on the neck and letting the cool blaze blister down his throat and light his stomach on fire.

_Crash and burn…_

"Wow," Dean was saying. "You sure?"

But Sam could tell by the tone of his brother's voice that he didn't really care. He was just pushing words around, keeping the small talk light and open, looking to share more celebration drinks.

"You bet," Ben continued on, holding up the Scotch in offering as Dean flicked his glass near. ""When you know what you want, you know it, right?"

Dean took the shot glass and held it up again, his eyes twinkling to the older man. Sam knew he had no idea what the guy was talking about. "Right," he bullshitted and down it went.

"I mean, Gina, she's got everything – she's beautiful."

"Yeah?" Dean goaded.

"And she's smart and she's-" the big guy stretched his arms across his tight belly, showing even a larger girth. "She's out to here, you know?" He laughed hard and elbowed his brother. "No, this is good, boys. This is-"

There was a mystical crack to an electric guitar behind them. Distinct. Spiritual. Very much a Latin beat coming from the jukebox.

"What. The. Hell?" Jeff spoke up, his voice hitting each word like it could be his last. He took a step back, his face paling.

Carlos Santana didn't have a problem answering him, plucking his guitar strings, letting the sweat and music pour out of him, entrancing his listeners to move to the music.

_Got a black magic woman..._

The three men in the corner let out whooping sounds, high five-ing one another, their laughter raising above the music.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Dude, it's just Santana." He grabbed at his seventh or eighth shot and downed it.

Ben's head whipped to the left. "You do this?"

"Hell, no!" Jeff snapped.

Sam alerted, felt the heat in his stomach churn and boil, his blood racing faster, warming his cells. "What is it?" His mouth ticked.

Dean's head rolled, his chin scratching on his shoulder. "Santana. They had an album. Called it _Supernatural_." He tried a laugh, but it came out like a snort.

Sam was ignoring his half-drunk brother anyway. Instead, he was zoning into his body. It all happened in a tunneled motion, everything he felt, smelled, saw, touched – it was all hypersensitive. The breaths from the Timmons' brothers were faltering, the voices in the corner were jeering. Sam could hear the slap of a card thud on the wood table as it was dealt. He heard Santana's fingers slide up the steel strings of his guitar and slide back down. He heard the unnatural stride behind him, mocking the vulnerability of the tavern. He heard petite footsteps dancing on the dust covered, unsalted wood floor.

His hairs on his arm pricked. He felt his own heart rate slow to a numbing pace thumping against his lungs, decreasing his need for air exchange. His entire body shifted into automatic, following a new pathway. He felt something pull deep inside him and knew Dean's eyes were on him. He knew his brother could sense the change.

_I've tried so hard to protect you… _

"What's wrong?" Dean asked to anyone who would supply an answer.

"This is Val's favorite," Jeff explained.

_I've got a black magic woman/Got me so blind I can't see_

"We took it out of the jukebox the year she died."

"Hasn't spun that song for almost twenty years." Big Ben's eyes fell on the brothers, accusingly. "You took care of her, huh?"

Dean and Sam glanced at one another. Sam frowned as he noticed his brother's bloodshot eyes. Dean blinked at him a couple of times as his hand rubbed at his thigh. "We s-salt and burned her."

The music escalated higher, the guitar riffs piercing into the small space.

"All of her?" Jeff barked over the rising music.

Sam looked away. He had climbed back into the gravesite. He had gotten the up close and personal experience with the scorched bones. He had made sure they were rid of Valentina Mondalvo.

He nodded to his brother, a look of steadfast confidence on his face.

"She was toast," Dean nodded his head back at the men, but something in his neck wasn't as positive as it had been when he had walked in the bar.

"What the hell?" A guy from the corner was shouting, his hand gesturing towards the jukebox. "Too loud, Big Guy! Too loud!"

Dean swiveled off the nearly broken stool and swaggered his way to the music. Sam watched him carefully as he approached the jukebox. Dean punched at the clickety white buttons and when that didn't change anything, he slapped the side of the jukebox a couple of times.

The music stuttered, but through the static, Santana found his pace, the sounds echoing off the walls.

"Did you keep anything of Val's?" Sam hollered over his shoulder at the brothers, his voice straining over the noise.

The men in the back were gathering their cards and chips up. The were talking amongst themselves, cupping a hand behind one ear, trying to hear their own words.

Ben and Jeff were shaking their heads back to the younger hunter. "Like what?" they asked in unison and Ben leaned over the counter. "What do you mean?"

Sam tilted in towards the large face and shouted, "Anything that belonged to Val? That came from her body?"

The head started shaking a negative.

"Skin?"

A shake.

"Toe nails? Finger nails?"

He could see a grimace forming on the bartender's face, but his head kept shaking.

"A tooth? Hair?" One of those sometimes would get a response.

His head was still shaking.

Sam took in another breath. He could see Dean out of the corner of his eye, shoving the machine out to look for the cord. "Nothing? Nothing that had part of her? Her blood or-"

But Big Ben's head was shaking. He turned his chin in Sam's direction and just as the music came to a screaming silence he yelled over, "Just Ramona!"

Sam's head angled to the side as the two men retreated from the violation of personal space and he found his jaw was slightly dropped. _Just Ramona?_ Sam swallowed hard. One thing he was positive about during this walk-in-the-park salt and burn was there was no way in hell he could see Ramona.

Strange thing was, the big guy had a point. _Just Ramona?_ She was Val's daughter. Her blood was part of the reason she existed in the first place. Val's actions were the only reason why she existed the way she did now_. Just Ramona._ How often had he used words like that to people in grief? Telling mourners to look to the children the victim had left behind. As long as they were there, the person was still alive. Through their child's eyes. In spirit. In the soul. Blood to blood.

Ramona was the only one left who carried any part of Valentina's spirit with her.

Dean turned to face the room, cord in his hand. "Well, that was weird."

A loud smack of thunder occurred outside, followed by a crack of lightning, shaking the walls of the small saloon and all seven of the men felt a jolt. The dull lights flickered on and off until the bulbs zinged a dim yellow, the room softly lit against the growing dark of the windows. Each man stayed in their respective spots, waiting in quiet surprise until they heard the pluck, pluck, pluck of the rain increase in speed and intensity on the roof.

Out the large window, Sam caught shadows moving quickly across the muddy street from the clouds above. He watched as grays of light were cast against the first rows of tombs from the big hill.

The air was thick and cool and Sam inhaled a wheezy breath as his eyes raked the darkening room. He knew where everyone was positioned, but it was his brother he was watching. A cloudy mist started to emerge next to Dean, starting low to the ground, but quickly tornadoing its way to a larger form.

Sam scrambled off his stool, reaching back to his waistband for his Glock.

"Get down," he said tersely to their hosts.

The bartenders were bright eyed as they started a slow crouch down under the counter. The Hispanics were scattering in the corner. Sam caught one of them doing the sign of the cross while another was grabbing all the chips.

"Sam?" Dean called over. His breath released in cold fumes around his mouth. His eyes darted across the open bar. Sam yelled at him to get down, the gun held steady in front of him. "Oh, shit," Dean mouthed a second too late as an icy breath brushed by his shoulder.

"Honey." She teased. "Don'. Don' do dat."

-TBC-

**Translations:** Conchita: Endearment for Val's daughter

Hermano: Brother

**Playlist:** _Black Magic Woman_ performed by Carlos Santana

_ A Dormir_ (To Sleep)

The verse of Val's Lullaby is: To sleep, to sleep with your dreams bitter. To sleep, to sleep with sweet nightmares. To sleep, to sleep.

_Brass Monkey_ performed by Beastie Boys


	7. The Bottle Let Me Down

**Disclaimer:** Refer back a couple of chapters

**A/N:** There's this adorable person who I've never met in person but when I get emails from her, for some reason my mouth ticks up and I find myself smiling. **MAZ101** is an awesome beta and I love that SUPERNATURAL brought me to her. And her to me.

**Chapter Seven: The Bottle Let Me Down**

_March, 2009_

Everybody has something to hide. Secrets and lies. Truths and realities. Love and hate.

Fear.

Sam could feel it. It was holding its breath behind him. It was menacing and hovered there, watching him. It was both young and old, new and used, protected and neglected. He could feel its power pull against his own; feel its energy.

Sam could hear it. It held a sound in its throat like a cricket chirping. Its small footsteps approached slowly and then ran excitedly to the center of the room, skipping and dancing on the dusty floor.

Sam could smell it. It was faint but it hit his nose in small doses. Musty and acrid, a scent he'd become accustomed to. A scent that made his salivary glands flip into overdrive. A scent so recognizable, he could taste it.

Sam turned to see it.

There was his brother, holding a power cord. He was saying something to the men, their ears still adjusting to the newfound silence, but Sam wasn't listening to Dean's words. He was watching them as they puffed out in cold clouds into the empty space.

Sam shoved off the crappy stool and reached for his Glock. It wasn't salt, but it was the only physical weapon he had on him. Not counting himself. He heard his name sound out from his brother's mouth and raised the gun up just as she appeared out of a foggy haze wearing that damned blue dress.

Jet black hair swooped away from her face, framing her beauty like a delicate watercolor. Dark brown eyes with long lashes, wild and untamed, gazed at the patrons in the tavern. Petite feet started scuttling on the floor, tiny hands reached towards Sam's brother. She was gaining color and depth. Gaining matter and substance. Becoming more solid, more real. Corporeal.

Sam watched as she brushed by Dean, her fingers grazing his shoulder. Her words were like syrup, sticking to the roof of her mouth, "Honey, don'. Don' do dat."

He could see Dean's eyes skate to the left getting a quick look at the ghost of the woman who's bones they had just burned. Sam could see his brother's face turn green with disbelief and too much Scotch.

"Oh, Christ." Sam heard Ben's harsh murmur float up from behind the bar. The big man's eyes were locked on the beauty that stole his heart once upon a time. Now she ticked and meandered her way past Dean towards the rest of the bar.

Sam pulled the hammer back on his gun. He watched as Dean attempted uselessly to grab the apparition with the cord. Sam swung the barrel at Dean and shook his head in warning.

Dean backed up. "Iron! I need iron!" He yelled to the barkeeps.

Big Ben didn't hear him, though. He was engrossed with Sam and the gun he had pointed on ghosts of girlfriends past. "Don't shoot her." Ben pleaded. "I can't watch you shoot her."

Sam dipped his chin down for a brief second and then coldly, he responded, "Then you'd better shut your eyes."

A smash of glass behind him caught him off guard and Sam twisted to see one of the whiskey bottles on top of a high shelf burst into a splattering of glass and liquid.

Jeff cried out from under the spray, his hands covered his head in protection as another bottle exploded on the other side of the shelf. Shards erupted with the force of a homerun, jagged pieces driving over to where the card players sat.

Sam felt the power singe the air. She was controlling the speed of the glass, the direction it dispersed. She wasn't menacing; she was deadly.

"Go!" Sam bellowed over the counter. "Get out of there!" He turned and glared at Valentina just as she had at him so many years ago, his gun snug in his grip and he fired a round into her chest.

The shot was nearly deafening in the small space. Sam felt his ears ring. The harshness of his breath hit his tympanic membrane, echoing painfully. He froze, fingers stilled over the trigger, smoke clearing from the barrel.

The black hair flew away from her face as the force smacked into her hard. Her shoulder jerked back and she halted for a moment. Her pale lips parted and a dry pink tongue pushed out, tracing the outline of her mouth. She almost, almost let a smile escape.

Lead bullets. Sam swallowed. They weren't even consecrated. They were just regular old discount store bought rounds.

Val straightened her dress out and raised her eyebrows. Then, not saying a word, she started walking again toward Sam.

He could hear Ben and Jeff scrambling away from the bar. Another burst of glass fired as a bottle of Gin was lost and Sam felt the glass enter his back like he'd been hit with tiny bullets. They sliced cold and buried hot with the burn of alcohol on his skin. She was coming for him. No matter what he did, no matter what he tried. Val was coming for him.

The lights flickered on and off again. The sound of booze trickling to the floor was met with feet stomping as the card players reached the front entry. The trio was on top of each other, trying to open the old door. They'd turn the knob to the left and the right, screaming and cursing at one another in Spanish, pushing and shoving until each one had had their hand on the knob. It still wouldn't budge.

Sam could feel his power. His blood, marked with a demonic Original Sin, was racing through his veins, warming his arteries, heating his heart. He watched Val. She was gaining distance; their eyes locked with one another. Sam wouldn't try to move from her stare. If she wanted him, he would make her fight for it. Demon or spirit, weapons or hands, he was still stronger than this.

Then Sam felt Dean clamp his hand over his arm and for a heartbeat, the night split. The heat boiling through his body, the blood bubbling under his skin cooled at the warm fingertips and the whole ride made the younger brother feel a sudden rush of dizziness.

_Nothin' bad's gonna happen to you as long as I'm here._

"Dean." That one word. Sam stopped moving. He stopped blinking. He stopped breathing. And for a second, he felt himself start needing.

_You don't need me…_

"Sam, get down," he heard Dean order and Sam tried to bend his body over, just enough to give his brother some space, but he found that his knees weren't able to hold him up any longer and he fell to the floor in a gawky display of legs and arms.

Dean reached a swift hand over the edge of the bar just as another bottle exploded, the glass was thrown in a sharp spiral, smacking into his arm and shoulder. He bit his lip, but a yelp of pain escaped as his fingers clasped around the butt of the sawed-off Big Ben kept hidden behind the counter. He swung around and jacked the iron in a clickety-clack motion, firing both rounds of salt into Val's chest.

Her open hands splayed away from her petite body, her face turned up towards the ceiling with a curdling shriek as she vanished in a poof of graying smoke. A frosty wind blew through the bar, carrying with it the tail end of a baby's cries. It whipped the faces and hair of the men, tasting and touching each one before all fell silent.

The door flung open from the force of one of the Latino men. The frigid air from the outside mixed with the heat from the inside of the tavern and made them all shiver. There was a few seconds where no one moved, no one spoke, they just stood in the calm, realizing they were there. Alive.

In a haunted saloon.

The three card players tumbled out the door, leaving behind their prized quarters scattered all over the floor along with the dust, the glass and the trails of booze.

"You got any salt?" Sam heard Dean ask. He glanced up and watched Dean's body turn to the brothers who were stepping out of their hiding spots.

Ben was examining Jeff's bloody hand, wincing at the embedded glass that had found a temporary home there. Droopy eyes looked up. "Rock salt. Some Morton's."

Dean nodded. "Get all you have together. We need to salt the place." Sam noticed his brother's arm and shoulder looked like hamburger after the glass shattering display Val had put on. Dean pulled back some of his skin and picked a couple of shards out, scarlet plumping to the surface immediately. He sighed and grabbed a towel from behind the counter, applying pressure on the injury.

Then he started a slow slide down the dark paneling of the bar and came to rest next to his brother.

Sam was shivering. His whole body trembled, starting from his toes on up. His hands shook, his teeth chattered and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He could feel Dean shift next to him as he wrapped the towel around his arm tighter. Then he cleared his throat, alerting Sam that he was there.

Dean was there.

Sam's eyes slit open, but he didn't look over. Didn't look anywhere, really, just dead ahead. Dean followed his gaze, eyes landing on the legs of many chairs and tables, dispersed in disarray.

"Sam?"

Sam's body stiffened. He wished he had it in him to look at his brother. But he didn't. He was readying himself to fight a demon army, to fight Lilith. But when it came to looking at Dean in the eyes, he found that _that_ was where he was made to fail.

"You okay, man?" Dean asked, his elbow poking into Sam's side. "Did you get hurt or cut or –"

"Why?" Sam's voice was hoarse and bitter.

"Why what?" Dean continued carefully.

Sam's gaze was fixed, his eyes studying a speck of dust on the floor. "Why even ask?"

Dean made a face and a huff escaped him. "I just asked if you were okay."

"You don't even care about yourself. How can you –" Sam started, stopped and then took a deep breath before starting again. "Just stop with it."

"Stop with what?" Dean's tone had turned. Concern to angry and Sam couldn't win now if he tried. "You don't think I care about myself? What about you? When the hell did you ever stop and put yourself-"

Sam felt the abrupt break in his brother's rant and he kept his eyes glued straight ahead. Better to ignore, let it go and not pour salt over unhealed wounds.

"Get the hell up," Dean shoved off of the floor. "We have to get this goddamn place ready before she shows back up." He threw Ben's sawed-off into Sam's lap and stomped away.

Sam stared down at the gun and he swore he heard Dean mutter something about his _Physical Graffiti_ cassette and, "Maybe it was your heart you buried."

Then Sam couldn't take his eyes off his brother.

-0-

_August, 1990_

It was the fifth night in a row that they had slept in the car. Dean was propped against the rear passenger door and Sam was pressed against him.

John had pulled the old Chevy into a wooded area, thick with trees which made the dark night bottomless. He had exited the Impala but had left the keys in the ignition, leaving the air condition to cool and the radio to sing his version of a rock-and-roll lullaby.

Dean's chest was rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Sam's head lifted and fell along with it like his brother was rocking the boy to sleep.

Except he wasn't. He was wide-awake, listening to _Cover of the Rolling Stone_ pipe out the speakers. His dad was walking around the car, punching at the buttons on his cell. He'd sigh and then he'd punch again. Sam counted six rounds of the game before he got someone to answer the phone.

It was Jim Murphy.

Sam could tell by the way John leaned against the side of the car. He acted like he was giving confession. He could also tell by the way he spoke. It wasn't like he was talking to Uncle Bobby or Caleb, those guys he would shoot the shit with. No, this held a respectful edge. It was like talking to a brother, but one that John had an admiration for.

He was chattering on about yellow eyes and sulfur and demons. Sam could hear him asking questions about possession without physically possessing. Then his dad would get frustrated, not wanting to say much, holding back parts of the story. He'd try a different tactic at asking what he wanted, without saying what it was.

He asked about demons and if they could spread illness_. No?_ He said it like he was disbelieving. Then there was a long pause where John was listening with short _Uh, huhs_ and _okays_ and his voice rumbled to a low bass and Sam could barely make anything out.

Sam was raised on stories of werewolves and poltergeists. He had been taken on hunts, he'd held the flashlight during grave digs, and he'd gotten to play with knives and guns. He was used to the fact that there were things in the dark that should scare him. All in all, they usually didn't.

Tonight, however, the night seemed to consume itself in more black. He listened to his father talk about the bizarre findings at the tavern and he knew he was asking questions about Sam, without using his name or implying anything. It scared him. He felt his body quiver and his skin flush in goosebumps.

"You okay?"

He hadn't even realized Dean's chest wasn't rising and falling in tempo anymore. He hadn't noticed two more songs had come and gone. He hadn't noticed the hot tears that were running sideways down his face, burning damp circles into Dean's t-shirt.

Sam couldn't answer him. John was still outside the car, still talking. And now he was laughing and Sam didn't know why. He didn't understand _why_.

"What is it?" Dean's voice was a whisper and the air was warm against Sam's ear.

"I'm bad."

He felt Dean half chuckle. "No. No, Sam. You're not bad. You didn't do anything."

Sam gulped a few times, trying to swallow his tears away. "You think they're okay?" He could hear the solid lub-dub of his brother's heartbeat through the thin cotton.

Dean waited four heartbeats before asking, "Who?"

"Val and Ramona."

Two more heartbeats pumped. "I don't know." He felt Dean's head shift, his chin rub against the top of Sam's head. "Sometimes… sometimes there isn't anything we can do to help. Sometimes people are just crazy."

He didn't know why but the words only made Sam cry harder. Dean wrapped his left arm around his shoulders and hung on, as they both listened out the door while John ended his conversation with Jim.

Their dad had a nauseating smile on his face when he looked down and saw his boys' wide-eyed reflections staring back at him.

-0-

_March, 2009_

Salt lines on every window, door, and open crack to the building? Check. A CLOSED sign on the tavern to keep out unsuspecting drinkers? Check. Two bumbling bartender-brothers sent home after dinner? Check. All the booze left in the joint at their fingertips? Priceless.

Dean grabbed the Vodka first. He went into the bathroom, pulled the towel back, and methodically removed each and every one of the splinters of glass out of his upper shoulder. He washed it with warm, soapy water and applied the anti-biotic ointment from the first-aid kit and wrapped gauze neatly around the wound. He pulled a loose fitting black t-shirt on over it, leaving the bandage open to air.

Then he resigned himself to take care of the rest of his hurts. He turned on the faucet and let the water change from cold to hot. He scrubbed his face, his hands moving down his neck, to his back and through his hair. He grabbed a larger towel and dried himself off. His eyes caught a stray strand of water rolling down his uninjured shoulder and he shrugged, scratching it away against his chin.

_Did I start all this?_

He stopped and stared at himself in the mirror. Same eyes. Same nose. Same chin. Same lips. New doubts. The whole world rested in his hands. He swallowed raw and tight.

_The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. _

It was his fault. He had put fate there. Every fate. He had failed and now he had to succeed. And he had no idea how he was going to do it. How was he going to lead the world to safety when he didn't even believe he could do it himself? When he didn't have the faith? He let out a long sigh and pushed away from the small sink. He tossed the first-aid kit in a silver bowl and threw the Vodka in to top it off. His hand reached for the handle and his fingers gave a quick shake.

_Our fate rests with you._

Sam was sitting on the twin bed with his shirt off. He had stuffed their final two towels around his rear and was trying to get a good look at the damages in the mirror behind him. He curved to the right, bringing up his hands at different angles, reaching for the slices of glass. He'd removed one so far.

Dean sat down on the opposite side of the bed and opened the kit, taking out the tweezers. "That bitch sure took a bite out of you," he grumbled, grabbing the Vodka in his right hand.

Sam sucked in a breath and ticked his head, his eyes roaming the paneled wall. "Yeah. Dean, you don't have to-"

"Hey, Quincy, I know your arms are freaky long, but even you can't reach back here."

"You're okay to do this?"

Dean threw the silver bowl down on the bed and wiped the tweezers with some of the Vodka. He steadied Sam's back in his sight. "I'm not drunk if that's what you're asking."

Sam stayed quiet.

"Kind of wore off. The bottle let me down." Dean tilted his chin. "I'm gonna have to debris some of these. Best thing we have is the alcohol."

Sam quirked up a crooked smile and stilled. "Of course it is." He folded his arms across his abdomen and held his breath.

Dean's shifted his weight on the other side of the mattress. His hand spanned in front of him and paused over his brother's back, feeling Sam's nerves pull taut. Dean wondered if it was because of the coming pain or because of the coming touches. There were worse aches in the world than the pain of the body.

"Try and relax," Dean offered as he twisted the cap and doused a generous amount of alcohol over a good portion of Sam's back.

Sam let out a hiss through his clenched teeth and bit back a cry from the base of his throat.

"Easy, Sam." Dean's voice pacified as he plucked out the first pellet of glass. He winced in sympathy at the puckered skin, the blood. It had been years for Dean. Years and years since he was on this side of the coin. Since his return from Hell, Sam had taken over patching himself up and this was the first time that actually warranted Dean's help. In an odd way, it felt completely wrong to him. And nothing could feel more right.

"Pink Floyd," Sam suddenly said and Dean's head quirked up.

"What?"

Sam's chin tilted. "What you're humming. _Us and Them_."

Dean opened the tweezers and let a glass pebble ping into the silver bowl. He hadn't noticed he'd been humming. "Yeah. Guess it was." He focused on Sam's back.

"I missed that, you know."

Dean's hands stopped and he felt that raw swallow again. His head involuntarily nodded. "Me, too."

"Guess you didn't get to listen to too much music, huh?" Sam's voice was edgy, trying to breathe through the pain.

Dean closed his eyes for a brief second. _Forty years_. Forty years without a beat, without a chord. Forty years without a pizza. Forty years without making love. Forty years without peace. Forty years without a brother. "Just what I could carry in my soul."

Sam shifted under his fingers, his breath catching in a gasp and Dean found himself falling back into the familiar rhythm. He let the humming growl from his throat and he continued until Sam's muscles eased.

"So," Dean began, "why do you think old Val's still hanging 'round?"

Dean had another piece of glass free and even upon removal, Sam's back jumped, the burn from the alcohol seeping into his open sores. He bit his inner cheek and tried to answer, but all he got out was, "Dunno."

"Well, we charred her," Dean hesitated, waited for Sam to chime in with any new information, but he didn't. "So that means she either left something behind. Something physical or…" He wiggled a piece of stubborn glass back and forth, noticed Sam grab at the edge of the mattress. "Sorry," he murmured as it slowly pulled out. He pressed the clean towel to Sam's back. "Or, her spirit's holding onto something."

Sam stuttered in a shallow breath and let it out in short laughs. It was better than the alternative. "Or someone," he commented.

Dean poured more Vodka over his brother's back and pulled his skin tight. He felt the heat under his palm and his eyes glanced at the back of Sam's head. "This one," he bit his bottom lip, "it's gonna hurt a bit."

Sam's back tensed at the words and Dean pulled the tweezers apart as far as he could, trying to find a good grip on one of the larger pieces of glass. It slipped once, the end of the tweezers hitting against Sam's tender skin. Dean blinked a couple of times at the sound Sam released. He waited as Sam's body took in a couple of cleansing breaths. Dean shook his head. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Sam sniffed. "Just get it out."

Dean's hands were on him again, pulling his skin and gingerly... gingerly he pulled the piece of glass out.

Sam turned his head to the left as Dean forced the towel back to the puncture site. He glanced up to Sam's pinched profile and met the pain with concentration.

"_Us and them. And after all we're only ordinary men_," He let a small smile tick to his brother as he held the pressure to the site. His voice low and soothing. "_Me, and you. God only knows it's not what we would choose to do._"

Sam sucked in a breath as Dean pulled the towel away.

"I'm sorry," Sam softly said, jerking his chin even more over his shoulder.

Dean wasn't sure exactly what Sam was apologizing for. The lies. The words. The little things. He proceeded on to the next pebble of glass. "Yeah, well you should be. Taking a shot like that… that was…" Dean's voice trailed off.

"Stupid," Sam answered.

Dean's eyebrow raised. "Yeah. It was." He kept his fingers moving. "I'm not useless, you know."

"I never said you were useless." Then Sam stopped. Or, maybe he did. In a matter of words. Somewhere in between the lines. And maybe he meant it, to a point. Just as much as his brother meant the things he had said.

"I know how to get rid of a ghost. Even one who doesn't want to go away. I just shouldn't have been…" Dean hitched on a lump in his throat. An admission he wasn't sure he was ready to own up to yet. "I shoulda watched my drinking."

Sam stayed quiet as Dean repositioned his hands, letting the silent drone of the room lapse into the void. Sometimes it was in the quiet that Sam best heard his brother. "Think it could be the dividing post?"

"What?" Dean pulled the glass out and shook more alcohol on the wounds.

Sam hissed loudly. "What's keeping Val here."

Dean hovered over the next buried rock, only a couple more left, he noted, as he mulled over Sam's theory. "Maybe," he decided. "Or, maybe it's the car. Ben said he still had the junkyard. How much you wanna bet the car is there?"

Sam flinched as the tweezers entered again and he let out a shaky breath. "Okay. We'd have to… burn the… car and the post."

"Yep." Dean removed the towel from the pressure point and poured the Vodka one more time. He looked at the last piece of glass. It was high on Sam's shoulder bone, sticking out like an iceberg. It was big and probably deep and the skin around it looked ugly, ripped and frayed. He tossed the tweezers down and reached up with his fingers and grabbed the edge of glass. "Probably have to tear the entire thing off the hill. Won't be a fence to separate the cemetery anymore."

"Yeah, well, maybe the former residents will rest- AAGGHH-"

Dean had the last piece of glass out, letting it drop from his hand, into the pan with the rest of Sam's shiny weapons of torment. The white, blood splattered towel was pressed hard onto his shoulder blade and Dean let his neck pull down, his head hanging low, his forehead almost resting on his hand. He shook himself back again. "Don't let anyone scratch their fingernails down your back anytime soon, Romeo."

Sam's eyes had squinted shut and were now opening again. He blinked back the moisture that had accumulated there as the Vodka poured over his back.

"I think we can make it without stitches." Then the antibiotic cream was being generously applied and the dressings were laid gently against his skin. "There you go," Dean announced and he felt Sam's back cool as he scooted away from him. Dean gathered up the leftovers of the field procedure and patted the mattress. "You take the bed tonight, Princess."

But his voice sounded bare and open like Sam's wounds. Dean felt Sam watch his movements, slow and quiet and something eased on the younger man's face.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean," Sam looked across the bed as Dean stood, throwing away the shards and unusable gauze, "that you didn't care."

_You have to stop it._

Dean tried to smile but it came out too weak and faded too fast.

Sam was waiting for him to respond, but he couldn't think of anything to say so Dean kept moving instead, unfolding the blankets. Sam watched him silently for a few minutes as he rearranged himself in the bed. "You okay, man?" Sam asked, gesturing to the gauze visible under Dean's t-shirt. "Your arm is it-"

"It's fine, Sam." Dean crawled down onto the makeshift bed and laid flat, his good arm crossing over his eyes.

Sam heard another deep sigh as he reached up and flipped the overhead light off. The darkness was suffocating in the small room, the light seemed to take most of the oxygen with it as it disappeared. It wasn't without meaning, though. Whatever Dean wasn't saying, whatever Sam was holding in, camouflaged well with the background all of sudden.

Sam blinked his eyes a few times, realizing there wasn't a difference under his lids so finally he just kept them shut until his breaths evened out and his heart slowed its beat. Behind his eyes, the dark spun into a corkscrew, visions of months past taunting him from the sidelines. A light appeared at the end and something reached out a hand to him, holding it there for him to take. And for just a second, Sam thought maybe it was hope.

**Playlist:** _Cover of the Rolling Stone_ (in reference to) performed by Dr. Hook

_Us and Them_ performed by Pink Floyd, sung by Dean Winchester

**A/N:** I hope this isn't boring you too much. We really are on the other side of the mountain. I'd love to know if you're out there - you can always say "Hey".

_The Bottle Let Me Down_ performed by Merle Haggard


	8. Salty Dog

**Disclaimer: **See Chapter One

**A/N:** Thanks again for all your reviews – **Vicky**, thanks for the lovely comments. I'd write you personally, but you're a bit incognito, so I'll say it now – thank-you so much. You're notes are truly appreciated. This chapter is a bit heavy on the flashbacks. Sorry the action is a bit on the down side, but I had to do some backstory. Oh, and **MAZ**? In an odd way, you make me want to do better. Thanks for that.

**Chapter Eight: Salty Dog**

_March, 2009_

Time ticked away through the cold night. The rain had stopped for a short time, giving a small break to the heavy hit area. The tavern sat eerily tranquil in the black, chairs on top of tables, the jukebox dead quiet, the floor swept clean from the aftermath of exploding bottles and spilled liquor.

In the back bedroom, Sam's eyebrows were climbing his forehead as he slept. It had started out so peaceful. A simple hand extended to him in a wordless request, an affectionate invitation. Then something happened.

It started out in his stomach. An ache. A churn. A need. It started to rise like a wave flooding his esophagus and into his mouth. His taste buds zinged to life, charged with a static electricity that his body had become acquainted with.

Sam swallowed, caught in time between sleep and wake. He rolled to his side on the small mattress and felt his stomach roll with him. His eyelashes stuck together as he tried to wake to the dark of the room. His senses were sizzling, his radar sharp and alert.

Something was moving in the bedroom. He looked over his shoulder.

Nothing.

Nothing but the black. He lay quiet and listened.

He heard more than most people probably could. Bumps and scratches and moans that others' ears couldn't humanly pick up. There was something there and it was darker than the black that surrounded him. It was an energy that was gathering, eyes that were watching, an ominous tension that was building.

He pushed with his palms to sit up when it flickered at the foot of the bed. It stood calmly watching. Sam's eyes narrowed. He knew it was there but didn't want to be seen. It liked the dark just as much as Sam did. It hid better there.

Sam's chest expanded to take a breath and in a whirl of black and blue, it rushed the bed. Its fingers were sweeping his body as the air shifted in its delight. Its hands were finding substance – a chin, a nose, a mouth. A heavy weight pressed down into an air-tight seal.

Sam fell back in a creaky thud to his musty pillow, his arm slipping from the side of the twin mattress and landed palm down on Dean's bare shoulder.

His brother woke with a strangled gasp.

-0-

_May, 1996_

They hadn't planned on returning to the tavern in Chesterhill. Like, ever. John knew when to stay away and when to press his luck.

"The supernatural can evoke two kinds of people, boys," he had explained in his all-too cryptic way. "Those who see the supernatural and those who don't."

Sounded easy enough.

"And then there are those who can't see it, but they lock away those who can."

The boys never asked how their father added one plus one plus one and got two. Instead they nodded and pretended like they were following.

Sam was driving. Really, really fast and without a license. Dean was in the back of the Impala, his right had clutching his thigh, his left hand clutching the front seat. Sam could hear him hissing from the pain erupting down his leg. He tried to ignore his brother as best as he could and concentrate on the cell phone he had clamped to his ear. His dad's words were breaking in and out, but he got the gist.

"Does… hospital? Broken leg. What? Where? Fine." And then there was a long pause where Sam didn't know if his dad was still there or if the call had dropped off until he heard a hot sigh release into the receiver and one word sounded clear as a bell: "Chesterhill."

Sam responded with temper-tantrum huffs and the occasional curse word but then he heard Dean moan as he punched the seat next to Sam's back. "FINE!" Sam screamed, louder than he wanted, and threw down the phone.

He really didn't want to go back to the old saloon. But Sam had heard the pop when the two of them were chasing the stupid Orthrus. Dean's leg breaking had sounded like a gun being shot off. Sam had sunk to his knees in front of Dean and put his hand on top of his tibia. The bone had snapped in half, he could detect the fracture through the skin. The heat radiating off it was sufficient to warm Sam's fingers and the scream Dean stifled when Sam had touched it was enough to force the younger man to his feet and help his hopping brother back to the car.

They were in the middle of nowhere, though. Nowhere to go and Dad was four hundred miles away. So Sam stuck his brother in the backseat and started driving. It took him an hour just to get his dad to call him back and when he did, John's suggestion left Sam with a choking sensation.

"I'll call Jeff and let him know to expect you," John had told him.

So much for staying away.

"Sam, pull over."

Sam glanced out the rearview mirror, catching Dean's half-mast lids pulling his lashes against his too pale cheeks. Sam had to stop himself from slamming on the brakes as he pulled the Chevy over to the gravel on the side of the road.

Dean's door was already opening and his brother was rolling his torso out of the small space, vomit splattering to the dusty earth below.

Sam took a step back so it wouldn't land in a messy display all over his shoes.

He waited until Dean was empty before he tried to touch him and even then the older boy pulled away, righting his body back in the car. He leaned wearily against the back leather seat and closed his eyes.

"Dean-"

"Just get in the car and fucking drive."

Sam swallowed hard but he shut the door and climbed back in the driver's seat. He turned the ignition, letting the engine rumble to life and stole a last look at his fading brother.

"We're going to Chesterhill," Sam said over the idling motor. Maybe saying it would make it more real. Maybe Dean would say something that would make him feel better about going.

He saw Dean's throat bob and his lips mouthed _Okay_ but he didn't hear the word.

Sam pulled the gear shift into Drive. "If you need anything, just ask."

Then he chuckled back a sob when he heard Dean whisper, "Zeppelin."

www

They had almost made it through the cassette. Plant and Page was just starting in on _No Quarter_ when Dean saw the simple road sign blur by alerting them that they were Welcomed to Chesterhill. He let out a relieved sigh simultaneously with Sam and his eyes automatically flew to the back of his brother's head. Sam had made it in record time.

Dean let his head fall back to the window in exhaustion. He really hoped that his voice was loud enough when he said "Good job, Sam." because he meant it and he wanted Sam to know.

Jeff had left the light on for them. Literally.

The barkeep was waiting up, keeping the backdoor open so Sam could get Dean up the stairs and into the small bedroom without being detected. It was just after ten p.m. and the bar was alive. Loud voices, even louder laughter and the bass thumping out the old jukebox was shaking the walls.

Dean winced as Sam and Jeff laid him on the mattress. His right hand gripped his thigh. He couldn't go any farther than that. The pain was too intense. He kept his eyes screwed shut, blocking out the dim light of the room, refusing to look down at the injury.

"Dean?"

He could hear his brother's thin voice against the _boom boom_ of the room and he wished he could shut his hearing off, too. The vibration of the bed was making his stomach turn and he really didn't know how much longer it would be before he started throwing up again.

"Hey, man, there's a doctor here."

Dean opened his eyes to Sam's voice. Through slits of green, he was able to make out ancient blue eyes gazing back at him. There were wrinkles encasing the almond shaped lids and more wrinkles that flowed down her face liked penciled vines. She smiled at him and Dean could see her teeth were too big for her mouth. Her tongue pushed up onto her soft palate and secured ill-fitting dentures back in their rightful spot.

"You're a doctor?" Dean's eyes slid over to Sam and back to the old woman.

She kept smiling though, and Dean tried to find comfort in her dry lips. "Retired, dear." Jeff brought up one of the wooden chairs and she sat down in a whoosh of air under her ass and turned her attention to the patient. "Whew." She fanned her hand in front of her nose. "What were you hunting? You smell like one salty dog." She rotated like an antique mannequin to take a cool cloth from Jeff. She gave an odd smile as she reached across Dean's body and pushed the washrag on his forehead.

It felt instantly cool and he realized then that he was sweating. She pulled away and Dean could smell stale cigarette smoke on her fingertips. She reached behind her and took a pair of scissors off a small tray.

"What're you doin' with those?" Dean's voice escalated. He felt a warm palm on his chest, pushing him down gently.

"I'm just going to cut your jeans off. Get myself a look at what's under here." She lifted her eyebrows mischievously and then waited until he nodded. He watched intently as she reached down and grabbed at tri-focal glasses hanging crooked around her neck.

Dean frowned at her as he noticed it took her two times to figure out how the glasses went on. Then her tongue pushed at the dentures again as the scissors sliced up the denim.

"Oh, my," she exclaimed as she filleted open the pants. She stared at the broken tibia, her wrinkles deepening with concern. She glanced over at the brothers and noticed the open mouthed gawks they were tossing in her direction. She'd seen the look before; they were scared. There was only one thing for her to do. "Well, I think I can help you out." She didn't sound so sure of herself. "It's not pretty. The best thing I can say is, it's not an open fracture." She took a deep breath. "It's not exactly my… field of expertise."

"Oh, God." Dean rolled his head on the pillow and groaned. "You're a vet."

She let out a short laugh that caused her to lose her breath and cough. "Well, a vet might be a better suited person for the job." She smiled again and waited until Dean's eyes were on her. "I'm a doctor, dear. I'm an OBGYN."

Both sets of eyes narrowed at her.

She laughed again. Her hands came up and clumsily shoved her falling teeth back into her mouth. "I delivered babies."

"Oh, Jesus Christ." Dean lifted a fist and hit Sam on the arm. There wasn't much heat or strength packed behind it, though, and Sam barely swayed.

"Don't worry," she soothed. "I've performed my fair share of emergency c-sections and I've even saved a few lives. I've pushed parts of the body back inside where they belong and secured them with a single stitch of thread." She looked over at Dean, her old blue eyes peering over the rim of her glasses. "I think I can set a bone."

Dean licked his lips and gave a quick nod.

"Good." The old woman cast her eyes on Sam then. "Are you going to be okay, dear?"

Sam was on his knees, in front of the mattress near Dean, his face the first in line for his brother to search for, if needed. "Yeah. Sure."

"Well," and her smile broadened, "that's good because the way your brother is holding your hand only tells me that as this goes on, he's probably going to break your fingers." She leaned in closer to them. "And I was hoping that this would be the only bone I'd have to snap in place tonight."

Sam and Dean glanced down at both their right hands. Dean hadn't even noticed he had grabbed hold of Sam's fingers and was already squeezing them white.

He let go immediately, almost shoving Sam's hand away.

The doctor requested her black medical bag from Jeff and asked for a few things around the bar to assist her, including the man's clean hands. She placed everything she needed on the tray behind her. She had everything from Whiskey to rubbing alcohol, from clean towels to chloroform, from antiseptic to a soft wallet. After all the bottles were open and all the wrappers were torn, she donned on a pair of sterile gloves. "Get the wallet ready, Jeff." She stood up and bent over her young patient, a white towel in her hand wet with chloroform. "If he wakes up in the middle of this, he's going to need something to chomp down on."

Dean's eyes widened as the old woman became the only thing he could see, her voice the only sound he could hear. He smelled a sweet nutty flavor as the rough cloth pressed hard against his face and he thought he might have bolted out of bed had he not felt the warm hand gather his again and hold tight.

www

Sam was certain setting Dean's leg had been harder on him than it had been for his unconscious brother. Dean had muffled a few groans, even the occasional whimper, but he had stayed asleep for the entirety of the procedure.

Sam had been wide awake. He remained on his knees, hand clasped with Dean's, eyes on his brother's face. Most of the time. He couldn't help the quick glances down to where the doctor was working. He'd noticed the two shots of Whiskey the old lady slammed back before starting the procedure, her eyes checking her hands until they stopped shaking. He knew he'd never forget the crunch that echoed off the four small walls of the bedroom when the bone cracked into place.

It was just before noon the next day. Dad had arrived an hour after the leg was fixed. Too late to do any good except sit and wait and Sam already had that position filled. Dean had opened his eyes a few times already but the pain meds the old doc had prescribed were keeping him pretty much out of it. Rest, water, keeping the leg still in the metal brace she'd brought along would be the best thing her patient could do to heal.

"Come on." John tapped at Sam's shoulder. "I had Jeff order us in a pizza. You need to eat something."

The pizza was cold by the time the barkeep had arrived back with it. Still Dad sat next to Sam at the counter, each boosted up on the stools eating and drinking while Eric Clapton's voice dreamily drifted in and out.

_It's late in the evening/she's wondering what clothes to wear_

It was the silence between father and son that was soaking up most of the strained non-verbal exchange. They'd reach for napkins at the same time. Dad's eyes glared at Sam as he picked off the sausage and refused to eat the crust. Sam would glance at the cuts and tears decorating John's hands.

But neither said a word. Anger and spite could only lead to yelling and hurt feelings. Silence was golden. And could split and break hearts.

Jeff had left the two. He said something about errands to run but as he came to the old front door, he hesitated. "Ben'll be coming in." He stated it cautionary. Like maybe John wanted to prepare a speech or at least prepare some defensive moves.

Sam noted that he hadn't mentioned anything about Valentina or Ramona. He hoped they would be staying away. But his dad didn't ask about them, so neither did he. He really doubted they would come by. Ben had probably kicked her out a while ago anyway. It had been years since the bar owner had demanded that John leave with his sons and God knew what the hell had occurred in the meantime.

Neither had detected the front door opening. There wasn't a scrape or a scratch to alert the patrons that someone else was coming in. This time, it was just the calm name called from behind them: "Winchester."

Sam noticed his Dad's jaw stopped moving mid chew, which made it hard for Sam to swallow his own food.

John moved slowly, wiping his fingers on a napkin, then the corners of his mouth. He took a quick drink before his body actually turned around. Then he smiled.

Sam was engrossed in the stand-off between the adults. Ben had grown older, heavier, scruffier. But he still had kind eyes and they twinkled when John nodded, greeting him with a "Hey, Ben."

Sam let out a relieved sigh when Ben smiled in return. "Never thought I'd see your ugly face again," he joked.

There was small talk kicked around so Sam went back to his pizza and Coke, listening to Clapton. His ears continued to stray, though, back to the words spoken around the music. He watched out of his periphery as John stood and looked around the tavern as Ben showed him the repairs that had been done and the ones that still needed to be completed. Sam followed, too. He didn't notice any difference from the last time they'd been there.

Ben checked the clock over his shoulder more than once and finally spoke up that "Ramona will be dropped off soon." Then he oddly added, "The sitter had a hair appointment or something."

Sam noticed his Dad's body stilled. John's arms folded across his chest. Ben's hands were jammed in his front jean pockets and then it was rambling out of him. There had been a train and Val had taken Ramona in the night. They were in the car. The train hit them and Ramona was found on the tracks, in one piece, barely alive.

John was silent, listening as the man went on with his account of the night. Ben shuffled his feet, his eyes looking down, then back up again, his words thick with emotion.

There wasn't anything the doctors could do for her. She would be in a wheelchair and her mind was gone. She had retreated back to an infant. She'd need twenty-four hour care. The hospital suggested a facility, gave him the names of a couple in the area, but Ben had insisted that he take her. He would hire help and along with his brother, she'd be no burden at all.

Sam had forgotten about the pizza and was fixated on the two men. His Dad tilted his head a few times, cleared his throat and let a "Damn" slip out once. Then he just stood motionless as Ben finished his story and waited.

"What about Val?" John asked and Ben's hands retreated out of the safety of his front pockets and covered his face as he broke down in silent sobs.

Sam looked away as his father took a step and folded the man in his arms.

-0-

_March, 2009_

In all honesty, he thought it would be the other way around.

Dean Winchester had gone from earth to hell and to earth again. He had gone from soul savior to soul torturer. He had started as a sinner and become righteous. He had crossed the line from skeptic to believer.

He was the one who was supposed to have his brother staring at him. He was the one who was supposed to be poked to be sure he was real. That he was there, in the flesh. He was the one that was supposed to have questioning looks fall upon him. He was the one who was supposed to have been changed.

Because he was.

His brother didn't look at him like that, though. He seemed all too quick to accept and move on. It was Dean that was stuck on the logistics of the resurrection. On the how's and the why's. He was the one looking at himself with a scrutinizing eye. He was the one who was looking at himself like he didn't know his own face. Like he didn't feel right in his own skin.

He was also the one who was staring at his brother with questions. It was one thing to feel too tight in his own skin. It was another not knowing who inhabited Sam's.

His brother still looked like Sam. Had the same hair color. He was way too tall for his own good. He had the same voice. But there were things. The way he spoke. The words he used. The force. Sharp, cold, and distant. The way he carried his body. Closed, dangerous, and isolated. The way his eyes cast different shades of colors. The green hues that morphed darker and sometimes… sometimes glinted with yellow.

It was the silence that Dean paid attention to the most, though. The things Sam didn't say. The secrets he kept, the powers he possessed. The lies he told to both of them. Most mornings Dean didn't know which version of his brother he was waking up to. Sam was becoming a shadow possessing skin and bone. He walked and talked, laughed and fought but the Sam he knew had died while Dean warred in Hell. This version of Sam was just a ghost left to taunt and remind him of the brother he once had.

It was Sam's hand.

Sure as he knew his own brother, this version or another softer model, it was Sam's hand. Dean's eyes flew open into the dark room. He lost his breath somewhere in this throat and shoved his body up. The pull from his shoulder caused a shock wave of pain to radiate up his neck and rage through his head, settling in his jaw.

His muscles bounced along his chin, his head whipped to the left towards the bed. Sam's hand was still blindly flailing over the side of the mattress, thrashing in the darkness, his fingers curling in desperation.

Dean jumped to his feet and hit the light switch on the wall.

Nothing. Nothing but Sam. His eyes were closed, his left hand was grasping his neck, his right hand was still… searching. Dean's eyebrows bunched over the bridge of his nose as he slowly approached the bed.

"Sam?" Dean waved a hand over the empty space above his brother. It went through easily, not hitting on any invisible obstruction.

Sam opened his eyes then and sucked in a throttling breath. The black of his pupils were constricted and at first, he didn't give any indication that he was seeing anything.

Dean bent over, into his direct line of vision and tapped gently at Sam's cheeks. He lowered his voice and tried a faint smile. "Hey… Sam."

One blink. Two blinks. And he was back. Sam's eyes rolled while his eyelashes fluttered and suddenly he was focused in on his brother. Dean kept two fingers on his cheek. He let Sam arouse with his senses; he was able to see, hear, smell and feel his way back to the small room.

"Sam." Dean took advantage of the edge of the bed, shifting a hip near his brother and dropping his hands back into his lap. Dean watched Sam in the quiet. His brother gulped in a few cleansing breaths, filling his lungs and letting the air sluggishly release. His feet danced under the sheets. Nervous energy or blood return, Dean wasn't quite sure. He waited while Sam splayed a hand against his chest and then finally he flung an arm over his eyes and shut the dim light out of his sight again.

Which also meant Dean was shut out, too. Doors, words, and Dean. This Sam was really good at shutting out lots of things.

Dean breathed. It wasn't too long ago where to calm his brother down, all he had to do was lay his hand over Sam's. Or to slow his breathing all Sam would do was try and match Dean's. Or when Dean said his brother's name, Sam would respond. He wouldn't lay on a mattress battling himself against a force that wasn't even there and then just rollover and pretend nothing had just happened.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was more abrasive, carried a bite that the older man hated that he heard, but he couldn't hide it. "Sam, what the hell was that?"

Brown hair was splashed against the pillow, some damp with sweat as Sam shook his head in answer. His arm stayed firmly across his eyes, his throat working a dry swallow.

Dean waited. He pushed and shoved at the rage that was building inside him. The tension was climbing again, starting in his chest and winding its way around his heart. Everything Sam did these days resulted in the same reaction from the older brother. His frustration, his insult, his fear, his concern – it all ended in the same display of messy anger and hurtful words.

Dean tilted his head and slowed his heart rate. Calmly, so very calmly, he tried again. "I didn't…" He paused a moment as Sam's breathing reduced. "I didn't see anything in the room. When I turned on the light. I didn't see anything."

"It was gone."

And so was Dean's anger. He nodded at Sam, almost energized, even though he knew Sam couldn't see him. "Okay," Dean encouraged. "Did you… did you see what it was?"

Sam's throat was still working up and down. He swallowed breaths, tasted the air. His arm didn't budge. "It was too fast."

"It was Val?"

There was a few seconds where Sam hesitated and Dean almost asked again when his brother suddenly blurted out, "I don't know."

"But it tried to choke you?"

"Yeah."

"Well," Dean's eyes surveyed Sam's throat closer. Satisfied that it was basically unscathed, he continued, "it sounds like Val's M.O."

Sam wasn't speaking again. Just breathing.

"Funny that the light scared it away," Dean commented as he stood up.

"Wasn't the light."

Dean looked down at his brother. "What?"

Sam removed his arm from his eyes and stared back. There was a raw need, young and scared tucked away in there that Dean recognized from before.

Before it all went FUBAR on them and he and Sam had lost everything. Even now with second chances they still had to fight good and evil to win. And good and evil lived everywhere. In everyone Inside and out.

"What was it?" Dean asked, his voice husky and worn, too tired to know the difference.

Sam held up his hand. "It left when I touched you."

Dean blinked. "Oh." He felt his knees wobble momentarily and then he cleared his throat and let out a deep sigh. "You mean… just like…" He tried to go on, but everything in him was just screaming to grab his brother and pack up and leave.

"Yeah," Sam's voice pulled his gaze back. "Just like before."

-TBC-

**Playlist:** _Wonderful Tonight_ performed by Eric Clapton

**A/N:** Just a note – I know that in the land of fanfic, we can do things that we wouldn't normally be able to do. Like use lyrics. I apologize if the lyrics of a song trip you up when you are reading any of my stories. I know I've been thicker in some than in others. This story was set mainly in a bar and really? I could have gone CRAZY with the lyrics, but I held back. I thought the fic was a bit heavy and didn't need to be peppered with lots of songs.

With that being said, I also wanted you to know that although I am a lucky girl with a lovely husband and a nice life, I certainly took the long way around the block. There was a time where I made poor decisions and I risked more than I had. And I lost. BIG. I actually remember the day I woke up and I realized I had two roads I could go down. One lead to where I am today, the other… probably a puffy crack whore, but who knows? My point is, during this time I had no home, I had no friends, and my parents had a warrant out for my arrest. Needless to say, I was screwed. But I figured it all out, went to college, patched things up, paid my retributions, and I did it while I lived on the streets. Until I got a dorm… that hole never looked so beautiful!

To this day, I hold those days close to me. I go there daily in my mind. I will never forget what I did and I will always remember the people I hurt – those who forgave me and those who never could.

When my husband proposed to me, I smiled and said, "First, I have something to tell you." And I spilled it. Two years of dating and he never knew about those months. When I was done telling him, he looked at me and he said, "Jesus, Amy, how did you survive that?" And, without missing a beat, I told him: "With help from my friends." He frowned. "But you had NOBODY." And I said, "I had Tom Petty. And Tracy Chapman. Annie Lennox. Robert Plant." By the time I got to "Terrence Trent D'Arby" he said, "Yeah, okay, I get it."

So, I like to use lyrics. I think there are songs that can take you back to a particular time in your life and I think there are songs that can save your life. If I trip you up when you come across a lyric, it wasn't my intent. I just have a thing for a good beat.

_Salty Dog_ performed by Flogging Molly


	9. Caps and Bottles

**Disclaimer:** Refer to Chapter One

**A/N:** This is the longest chapter of the story – hope you guys make it through without falling asleep. Hey, **marinawings** and **madebyme**, glad you guys have joined the party that is the SUPERNATURAL fandom. Your stories are pretty cool. I'm glad you sought me out. You have both been a treasure to find!

**Masta-Beta: MAZ101**, I wish there wasn't an ocean between us. Even if you lived 1.000 miles away, I'd make that drive. I love knowing you're over there somewhere, though.

**Chapter Nine: Caps and Bottles**

_March, 2009_

There was a loud banging on the bathroom door followed by a playful, "Zip it up!"

Despite their middle-of-the-night ghost, Dean seemed to have woken up in a good mood today. Or maybe Sam just hadn't pissed him off yet. Sam spat out the toothpaste and grabbed a paper cup to rinse his mouth. He filled it with cold water and tossed his head back to gargle, spitting into the basin as he came forward.

The small bathroom was only big enough for a petite shower stall, a toilet and the littlest sink Sam had ever laid eyes on. There was an 8X10 picture frame that hung on the wall, next to the basin that ribbed him every morning. It had been there as long as he could remember. Inside it held a collage of pictures of the lives of the Timmons brothers throughout the years. Sam had looked at it when he had been in the bathroom the day before and had stifled a chuckle. One thing about the way he and Dean lived, he didn't have to worry about a flurry of photographs illustrating the way he had grown away from his family.

He could hear music from the jukebox drifting in small swells down the hallway and under the door. That was how he remembered growing up. What song was playing on the radio on the way to a hunt or what tune was one of them humming when the other was sick. Music always sparked memories. And with the memories, came the pictures in his mind.

This morning, it was a bluesy-ballad that was filtering into the small bathroom.

_Every time that I look in the mirror/All these lines on my face gettin' clearer_

Sam sighed. And made it a point _not_ to look at himself in the mirror. He'd seen his hardened reflection too many times in the past months. He'd seen himself changing, he'd seen himself fading and he didn't want to look anymore. He didn't want to know who he'd see this time. Or who he wouldn't.

_The past is gone/It went by like dust to dawn_

He tried to tell himself he needed to do this. This would get him to the next level. He needed to be able to let himself alter and modify into someone else because the old Sam would never have the strength to do what the new Sam had to.

_Isn't that the way/Everybody's got their dues in life to pay_

He hadn't lied to Ruby when he had told her that he didn't want to do this job when he was an old man. He hadn't exactly told her the truth, either. The fact was he didn't want Dean doing this when he was an old man. He didn't want Dean to have to fight at all. Not after everything he had done for Sam. Not after everything he had sacrificed for him. He had sold his soul. Gone to Hell. There was no _Thank-you_ that could ever be big enough to make up for what Dean had done.

_I know what nobody knows/Where it comes and where it goes_

And what had Sam done so far for Dean? Abandoned him. Gone to college. Had three years of normal. Blamed him for bringing him back into their screwed up life. Abandoned him a couple more times. Oh, yeah – failed at saving him from the pit.

_I know it's everybody's sins/You got to lose to know how to win_

But now Sam could defeat Lilith. And when he defeated her – if it cost him his own life – well, sometimes what's dead should stay dead.

Sam's eyes stayed low as he turned from the bathroom and opened the door. His brother was almost sinking on the mattress, tying his black boots.

"Let's stop dragging our asses and get the hell out of here."

Sam let out an exaggerated huff.

"I'm just saying," Dean finished with his boots and was shrugging into his black jacket, "we get up on the hill, tear down the fence line and torch the death car. Get the hell out of dodge."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Dean threw his brother his jacket and turned the door knob to the hallway.

"It's too easy," Sam said, pulling on his coat. "Too clean."

"You should know by now, man, nothing is ever easy."

_Exactly_, Sam thought but he bit his bottom lip and let it go.

Dean stalled in the arch way, like he wanted to say something, but then his expression fell and he turned his body away. Sam watched him pivot, watched the way he grabbed at the door jamb, the way he favored his right shoulder. He moved like his body was damaged, bent, and aging; not like it was blessed and new.

"Remember when Big Ben used to think Val was just crazy?"

Sam's words stopped Dean. He stood with the door held loosely in his hand, his gaze still focused down the small corridor. "Ben never thought she was crazy, Sam. He just didn't want to face the truth."

Sam thought maybe Dean was trying to say something else as he walked away. Whatever it was, he took it with him. But he left the door open for his brother.

www

"This is a bitch!" Dean thundered as the rain fell down and his boot struck the fence.

It wasn't just the rain, either. Today they had to deal with twenty-five mile per hour winds. It made their clothes beat on their damaged bodies, the old fence bowed low to the ground and the wind itself lacerated their skin. Everything stung.

Originally, he had come up with the idea to have he and Sam on the same side of the fence and each could just push the fence down, but it kept bouncing back up. They had tried a saw, but out of the two Ben had one was a hand saw and was too dull and the other lost its chain three minutes into cutting the fence.

Dean and Sam were unsure if their characteristic bad luck or supernatural forces caused that.

So Sam had come up with them being on different sides of the fence and kicking it at the same time. Dean had scoffed at the idea, but as their boots came into contact with the sagging wood, the fence splintered apart.

Dean tweaked an eyebrow to himself. Guess working opposite sides of the great divide still got the job done.

It took a couple of hours to gather the scattered pieces of the fence down off the hill. Dean built a mound of sticks and doused it with accelerant. The fire hungrily engulfed it in the rain and wind, but despite the weather and new curse words later, the wood was pretty much chips of ash.

"Car's in the yard," Ben growled as he walked them behind his house to the back yard. "I had it pulled around for you this morning." He stopped by a few antique cars that he had been fixing up or planning to, but had long abandoned the jobs. His chubby finger pointed to a lone car. It had been a 1988 Ford Taurus. Now it was a heap of metal.

Big Ben wouldn't come any further. Too hard, Dean figured. There were some things people just couldn't say good-bye to even though they never wanted to say hello again, either.

"You gonna be okay?" Dean asked as he gripped the lighter fluid in his hand.

Ben nodded, his eyes seemed droopier today, if that were even possible. "I need some peace. Hell, I need her to have peace. And if you-" He stopped then, shook his head and instead just waved his hand at the brothers as he turned his stomach and the rest of his body away from the dead and dying automobiles and hobbled back into the house.

The interior of the car was smashed, but the seats were still there and were made of cloth, not leather. It soaked the accelerant like a sponge. Dean had passed the can to his brother and watched as Sam coated his side of the car, hitting the dashboard and the backseat as well. Dean didn't notice any hairs sticking to the broken windows or any pieces of brain on the floorboard. His eyes did catch the bloodstains, though. They were everywhere. The cloth interior had soaked them up, too.

It took a few chosen spots to get the fire roaring to life. The seats burned up easily, smelly, and smoky but the outside of the car was a different story. They got it as charred as possible, leaving behind an unrecognizable block of black tin.

"I can't believe we burned a car," Sam was saying as Dean drove back to the bar. His eyes skated across the seat. "To get rid of a ghost."

Dean hitched a shoulder. "We've done worse."

Sam shrugged a look. "Guess so."

Dean watched the outskirts of town pass by them over the sleek hood of his baby. Small farm houses whizzed by, all of them looking like they were in need of a paint job. They passed cows and horses, pig pens and rows of corn. Then came the single streets of row houses. All scrunched together with barely a two foot span of grass to separate the buildings. Each street started with the old muddy road and each ended at the packing plant.

The Impala rounded a curve and off to the left was the big old hill housing the cemetery, with the tavern off to the right. The beer logos were dimly illuminating the coming rainy night. There were cars already parked in the crammed lot and a small group of four drinkers were just swinging out the front door.

Dean hoped that their efforts had worked, but the air still felt thick. Nothing felt like a balance had shifted or that a tension had lifted. It all still felt the same. Not that he really remembered it feeling any different when they had been there before.

"Holy shit," Sam quietly breathed and Dean felt his foot lift off the accelerator.

"What?"

"There she is."

Adrenaline raced through Dean's system and found his foot. He slammed on the brakes. "What? Where?"

Sam's gaze was fixed out his window. Dean had to lean over, his brows lifting high on his forehead, getting a good look at what his brother was seeing. Way up on the old hill was a figure standing still. The rain fell down and the wind whipped wildly. Her hair blew in violent strands against a porcelain face and her blue dress waved in warning.

He could hear Sam swallow and his eyes swung over to catch his brother dropping his gaze. He was staring at his hands, rubbing them together in slow movements. Dean pushed back to his own seat and pressed on the accelerator.

"Guess we didn't get rid of her." Dean stated, his mouth turning down into a frown.

"Guess not." Sam was looking out the window again, watching Valentina watch the tavern.

Dean looked ahead. The group of four had made it into their cars and were departing, one of them nodding heads with another person as he entered the bar. He was big. Older. Looked like Ben. And he was using the handicap entrance to the front of the building. Dean's eyes narrowed as he closed in on him. Up the wood plank he wobbled back and forth as he pushed a shiny wheelchair in front of him.

_Aw, Sammy._ "Sam?"

There must have been something off about Dean's voice because he heard Sam's neck twist to look at him. Dean tried to say something to prepare Sam, but he was already following Dean's stare out the front windshield.

"Holy, shit," Sam repeated. "There she is."

-0-

_May, 1996_

Dean had come out of his chloroform-induced haze slowly. And violently. Neither John nor Sam had expected the flying fists or the attempts to sit up and bolt out of bed. They hadn't counted on the nightmares or the daymares and were each surprised by his impressive vocabulary. And what Dean thought of each of them.

"He doesn't mean it," John had barked at Sam while they struggled to hold the injured boy down. Sam hadn't thought Dean meant any of it and besides the fact that he was risking hurting himself all over again, Sam had actually found Dean's comments to be amusing.

Especially when they were addressed towards their father.

Still, it was nice when Dean opened his eyes and looked around the room for the first time and found Sam with knowing eyes. "Where's… ol' l'dy?" he slurred.

Sam had been confused but then realized that Dean was talking about the doctor. "She's gone."

"It worthk?"

Sam giggled. "Yeah, it worked."

Dean's eyes roamed the small prison of dark paneling. "Dad?"

Sam nodded back. "He's here. Just, you know, out in the bar."

That settled Dean's anxiety. Dad was there. Sam was there. He was there. The three of them together and in one piece – well, at least now they were all in one piece. Thanks to the retired baby doctor. Dean let a long sigh escape and his eyes closed as his head dropped deeper into the pillow.

"Get some sleep –"

"Don't want to," Dean retaliated, but his eyes stayed shut.

"It's okay, Dean. I'm not going anywhere."

Those were the days when Dean was a superhero and Sam idolized him and there was no running away from each other. Just running away with each other.

"What song is this?" Dean asked, listening as the jukebox played on for the evening customers. They weren't rowdy yet, they were just getting warmed up.

"Uh," Sam listened for a moment. He knew the group. "Steppenwolf."

"What's the song?"

It wasn't one of their popular ones. No_ Magic Carpet Ride_ or _Born to Be Wild_. It was too early to be blaring those favorites out of drunk mouths. "_Hootchie Kootchie_?"

Dean grinned and his eyes slit open for a few seconds. "_Man_. _Hootchie Kootchie Man_." He shut his eyes again.

Sam thought his brother had gone back to sleep until another riff started up.

"What's this song?"

Sam smiled wide. Dimples everywhere. Dean didn't see them but he heard them. "The Who." It continued on like that, through the evening until night descended. Sam answered every song, every artist, the lead singer, the bass guitarist, the drummer. He recounted where Lynyrd Skynyrd had gotten their name and who died in the plane crash. Then that brought on a whole other subject of how many bands each of them could list where a member perished in a plane crash. Then those who O.D'd. Then those who blew their brains out… or something to that effect. They continued for hours until Sam's voice grew hoarse and Dean fell asleep for real.

Then Sam could let go.

The bar was crazy loud. Dad hadn't been by to check on them. Since they had arrived, Sam had taken the floor and Dad had slept on a cushioned booth near the pool table. Sam crawled off the bed and down to the hardwood along with the dust mites. He smoothed out the blanket and for the first time in two nights, he fell asleep right away.

As the evening danced on and the bar life came to a close, the small room in the back became darker than the night. Sam shifted on the blanket, his shoulder getting caught underneath him as he tried to rollover.

Something scratched on the floor and Sam's eyes opened. He glanced over to the where his feet lay tangled in the blankets and saw a murky form swing from left to right. It didn't seem to have much substance, but as his eyes adjusted on the darkened speckles, it blinked at him.

Sam swallowed and held his breath as the figure sucked in the warm air and released an icy breeze into the bedroom. Its gaze never shifted, never deterred. It seemed to be very content in the watching.

Until Sam took in a shaky breath and the oddly flickering body lurched forward. Sam reached up with his left hand and touched Dean's shoulder.

And just like that, the figure dissipated into the night, leaving Sam gasping for air.

www

Sam couldn't explain what the thing was in the back bedroom. He didn't even know if it had been real or if it was just a bad dream.

He never was one to have good dreams.

"So it wasn't real?" Dean had probed from the twin bed.

Sam's eyes were everywhere but on Dean. "I don't know."

That answer didn't help anyone out.

They spent the days playing cards and reading Native American History books on Legends and Lore. They brushed up on their Latin and had arm wrestling matches.

Dean slept and Sam prayed.

John walked. A lot. He told Sam he was just killing time while Dean's leg healed but Sam never knew his dad to do anything so leisurely. No. He was checking things out. He carried around a pocket EMF and chanted a few words of Latin every so often. Sam saw him etching symbols into the muddy road. He even caught him raising his right hand up, as though he were giving a blessing at a Catholic mass. He did that over several stones in the cemetery.

None of them were the newer ones.

On the third day since Dean had woken up – it had been the fifth day since they had arrived – John and Sam moved him from the bed to a chair for the first time. Considering the fact that he had just about lost a leg, the move went rather well.

"Mother fucker – Son of a – Oh, my God!" Dean spat out, his weight bearing down on his good leg while he attempted to balance with help from dad's shoulder. "Son of a bitch!" He cried out half way down the hallway.

"Breathe through it," John suggested helplessly.

Dean tried but it grunted out in short "goddamn's" all the way into the bar.

Sam moved a chair closer and grimaced when Dean shuddered in a breath as Dad lowered him down. Sam pushed a table closer and brought over a couple more chairs. One for Dean's leg. The other for Sam.

"Here you go." Sam handed Dean a paper bag and gave one to John, too. His dad had taken it and retreated back to the counter and his beer.

"Thanks, Sam," Dean tossed out between bites of roast beef and cheese. His eyes twinkled and for a moment Dean almost looked happy.

Sam smiled and thought about how easy it was to take care of Dean. He liked that his brother let him. Even if it was for just a few days.

Playing cards and arm wrestling was much easier to do at the table. Sam was the current reigning champ, claiming 7-4 odds at Poker and 12-9 full-on hooks and rollovers in the arm wrestling category.

Sam had, of course, accused Dean of being a cheat. Letting him win. But Dean admonished the accusation. He claimed he was caught off guard, in a weakened state or some lame excuse like that.

Then he grinned and Sam never did buy it. It was okay for Sam to take care of his brother as long as he remembered who was still older. Dean was always good at subtly pulling rank. Even if it was to say thanks in his own way.

It had been over four hours of sitting in the bar listening to everyone from Steely Dan to Heart have their turn squealing out of the jukebox and Dean was way past time for his pain meds. He had drunk more Cherry Cokes than Sam could count and was shifting uncomfortably.

"I gotta take a leak," Dean announced to only Sam. "And I think I need to lie down."

John had his back to them, his nose and eyes buried in a stack of newspapers. Sam knew he was scanning for their next hunt or _his_ next hunt, whichever fitted into his schedule. He had been soberly quiet throughout the day, only throwing glances at the boys every now and then. He had walked over and picked up the trash from the subs, barely even asking Dean if he was okay when he accidentally bumped the chair his bad leg was stretched out on.

Sam sighed, realizing without a doubt that they'd be leaving soon. He just hoped they'd still have an entire day and not a few hours. Dean needed one more night in a real, albeit crappy, bed.

"Think you and I can get you up together?" Sam asked, not wanting to bother his dad in the middle of research.

Dean tilted his head. "That's what I'm counting on, man."

Sam had his right arm draped around Dean's back; his thumb hooked into the belt loop of his jeans. "One. Two…"

"Three," Dean grit out as he pushed his body up, most of his weight falling onto Sam's shoulders.

All the noise Sam was making standing his brother up didn't even compare to the elevated sounds Dean was making. Combine the two and neither of them heard the snick of the front door.

"I told you," Sam heard Ben shout out, "that there might be a couple good lookin' boys for you to see."

Dean's breaths were punching in and out of his lungs. Sam felt him stop and start to circle in the direction of the man's voice. His weight swayed with him, his left side slumping into Sam's right.

Ben was placing a shiny silver wheelchair into a locked position in the middle of the bar. He turned to his guests and nodded at them all. "You remember Ramona."

Dean smiled first. He even showed his teeth and let it touch his eyes. Sam was amazed that no matter if his brother was in pain and needed to pee like a mother he could still offer a civil 'hello' to the hand that fed them.

Sam readjusted his grip on his brother's back as Dean leaned in even more. He forced an awkward, uncomfortable smile at the girl. "Hi."

Ramona didn't respond, though. She was still a year older than Dean but it was hard to distinguish. Her left leg was missing below the knee and her right leg was long and sleek and ended with a foot that turned abnormally inward. Her arms were long as well with hands that were contractured into steeled fists. Her neck pulled tight to the left and her head fell heavily behind her. The wheelchair was equipped with a nice leather head rest that caught it so she could look around if she wanted.

"She sure looks a lot like her mother," John was saying.

She did, too. In fact when Sam looked beyond everything, he could see a very young Valentina detained in the wheelchair. In the body.

He felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Sam," Dean spoke softly. "I'm ready."

Sam tore his gaze away from Ramona's broken outline and started helping Dean hop out of the bar. Ben was talking with John about how pretty Ramona was and Ben was talking about how rewarding caring for her had been, not difficult, like everyone had predicted.

Then there was a sniff. It was loud and nasally and it seemed to go on and on.

Sam halted. He felt Dean stop mid-step and they both turned their heads over their shoulders.

Ramona's head was resting upright away from her neck rest. Her eyes were focused, her pupils the size of a pin point, staring at Sam.

"Jesus Christ," Ben stammered.

Ramona's mouth opened and her lips started moving in slow motion. No one breathed as the girl continued, her mouth widening and closing until air escaped, strumming her vocal cords and she whispered, "Truth."

Sam's eyes narrowed and he felt his heart rate pick up. "What?" He asked just as quiet.

Her head bobbled to the left and the right, her nose twitching with it. Sam watched as her chest swelled with the scents of the room. Her body jerked forward from the wheelchair and her mouth expanded releasing a horrific scream.

-0-

_March, 2009_

He was shaking.

Sam, whom up to this point had held it together with secret powers and strength beyond his own comprehension, found that his knee was bouncing. The nerve-racking jumping was traveling, too. Up his leg, through his arms, quaking his fingers as they reached for the car's door handle. He tried to steady them, his eyes falling to watch as his hand curled around the silver lever but he caught sight of his own reflection in the glass of his window and his chin trembled.

This shaking wasn't caused from fear. It wasn't caused from the fire of pain he had endured in his back that day. It was the itchy wriggle of withdrawal.

Sam wiped a sweaty palm on his thigh, the denim bunching under his skin.

"You want us to both go after Val?" Dean was asking. "Or did you want to split up?"

Sam frowned and looked over to his left. Dean was staring straight ahead, the Impala chugging into a close-enough parking spot to the tavern. He turned the ignition off with a flick of his wrist and pocketed the keys.

Sam was still frowning. And still shaking. He swallowed the cluster of spit that had gathered in his mouth and felt his stomach roll. It wasn't saliva that his body wanted.

"Why would we split up?" he asked, trying to sound solid, not wavering. Trying to sound normal and not strung out.

Dean was assessing the situation through the protective glass of his window. "I just thought I could, you know, go into the bar and make sure everything is Kosher in there. Put down more salt, get people out or take cover and you could-" He turned and looked at Sam. "Jesus, what's wrong with you?"

Sam's line over his nose deepened. "What?" He involuntarily licked his lips and then wished he hadn't.

Dean was looking at him like his head was going to spin around and he was going to start chucking pea soup.

"I'm fine," he lied. And was caught because _I'm fine_ was always code for the opposite.

"You're sweating. Is it your back?" Dean sounded concerned. His eyes were narrowed, his shoulders were tense. Sam was half expecting to see the back of his hand checking his forehead for a fever.

Which actually sent Sam from paranoid to pissed because the prickle building inside told him he didn't need Dean and his goddamn concern. He didn't need Dean telling him what their next move should be. He didn't need Dean being the older brother. Cause while Dean figured out the method of madness down yonder, Sam had figured out that being an only child gave him choices. And being the only one who made the choices gave him advantages.

So when one became two again, Sam realized that it wasn't about being older. It was about being stronger.

"No." Sam pulled on the door handle. "I'll go take care of Val. You make sure everyone's safe in the bar."

Dean was out of the Chevy, slamming the door, following Sam around to the back of the car. He glanced twice up the hill to be sure Val was still there. She was. Still staring down the bar like she was waiting to see if it was going to make the first move.

"Sam," Dean kept his voice low, "you need to stay focused."

"Me?" Sam rummaged the trunk with one hand, keeping the other wrapped around his lurching stomach. "I'm not the one who's on the brink of a fucking nervous breakdown."

If he would had looked up, he would have seen the hurt in Dean's eyes. The betrayal. But he didn't look up because lately he'd seen that look mask the hazels of his brother's irises too many times.

"You're making this about me." Dean pointed out softly.

"It is about you."

"Is it?" Dean chided back and Sam felt him still. His breath held and he swore Dean had somehow gotten closer to him under the lid of the trunk.

Sam's vision parted and cleared through edges of white and black. He slowed his heart rate and calmed his breaths. His back expanded and retracted in smart jabs of pain but he blinked past them went back to his search of the trunk.

His right hand was resting on the sawed-off. Probably had been the entire time.

He saw Dean check over his shoulder again, eyes scurrying up the hill. They had to make a plan and act on it pretty damn soon.

Dean was moving next to him. His hand rested on the open lid and he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I started all this."

Sam's eyes skimmed over. "Started what?"

"This." Dean's hand turned, palm up. "I broke the first seal."

"Dean," Sam shook his head and quickly checked the sawed-off. Locked and loaded. "I'm not mad about that."

"What are you mad at then?"

Sam smiled then and it was almost breathtaking. His dimples warmed his cheeks and his eyes twinkled reminding them both of a lost little brother. Sam reached into the trunk and snagged extra salt rounds and stuffed them into his front pocket along with two silver flasks. One with salt, the other with holy water. He felt his whole body vibrate with a dull ache of secrets that he wouldn't own up to as he felt Dean's eyes bore into him.

"Fine," Dean said sharply and alternated his own hands in the back of the Impala, picking out his weapons of choice. "I'm just trying to be honest with you. Make sure you haven't forgotten which side you're fighting on."

Sam hefted the sawed-off over his right shoulder, feeling his back pluck with bursts of stings. His stomach was his culprit, though. It snarled in a pool of acid. "Yeah, well, I think I'm pretty clear. You just make sure you know what side you're fighting for." He stood tall and rigid, meeting Dean's wondrous eyes.

"I always know what side I'm on," Dean said, slamming the trunk closed. "It's been the same side I've been on since day one. And just so you won't forget – I'm on Mom's."

They stood in silence long enough to hear another customer leave the bar and to catch the middle of Don McLean sing _American Pie_.

_Oh, and as I watched him on the stage, my hands were clenched in fists of rage_

_No angel born in hell could break that Satan spell_

_And as the flames climbed high into the night, to light the sacrificial right_

_I saw Satan laughing with delight, the day the music died. _

The wind thrashed around them then and took the rest of the song away. Sam wished it could take more. The barren sour feeling in his stomach, the disease pumping through his veins, the fact that he needed to pacify it. He swallowed hard and forced the acid back down. The problem was, where he used to have the answers, now he didn't and when it came to his brother he didn't know where he was supposed to go anymore. Forward was not something in their current vocabulary.

"Well, I guess we're going to split up," Sam finally said, drawing deeper lines into Dean's already strained frown.

Dean was nodding. Splitting up got the job done faster. Or so they claimed. Divide and conquer. Of course, if they thought they were alone when they were together, they always found that they were desolate when they were apart.

"I'm just going to get everyone out of there and salt the place."

"I'll go up the hill and smoke Val out-"

"You sure you can do this alone?" Dean sounded hesitant and Sam felt the stress pull between them again like a rubber band, seeking its weak spot.

God, what was this? _Candid Camera_? _Punk'd_? He wished Ashton Kutcher would just reveal himself already 'cause Sam had already been doing this alone for months. Not counting the Trickster's fucking evil joke, either. And there were times like these – where he was on the brink of losing it – where if he let himself really think, really feel… he would realize how lucky he was. How scared he was. If he shut his eyes and opened them a split second later, maybe he'd find his fairyland would all blow away.

He'd be alone again. The only one calling the shots. The last Winchester standing.

_Never._ Sam swore to himself. _Never again._

Sam nodded at his brother.

Dean stared back, his freckles standing out against the poor light from the tavern. His green eyes stayed on Sam and the younger man had to look away. In another time, Dean was capable of seeing more than Sam wanted. The older brother hadn't quite gotten the groove back on that one, but right now Sam was more raw than he had been for days.

Dean would be able to read him inside and out.

So Sam kept his eyes shaded. "Yeah. I can do it alone." He said the words slowly, not holding any emotion to them. He wanted – he needed – Dean to believe him.

"Okay," Dean agreed.

They started to turn away from one another. One to the left, one to the right when Dean tugged at Sam's jacket.

Sam reluctantly stopped.

"Just… take the first shot, okay?" The concern was back or maybe it had never left. "Don't over think it. And don't miss. That bitch is fast and likes to duck to her right." He paused a few beats before throwing in, "Just watch yourself."

Sam tried not to grimace. He took a step away from Dean forcing his hand to let go of the jacket. He tried to remember that regardless of strength, Dean was the older brother and it was hard to release authority of that role. Sam ignored the look splashed on Dean's face.

He nodded once, holding a tightness in his thin pierced lips. "You, too."

He turned and ignored that his brother's words actually made him feel warm. That they actually hit him somewhere deep down inside. He tried to forget because allowing all of that would remind Sam of how human he really was. How much he needed his brother. And he wanted – he needed – to not have to _need_.

Sam crossed the muddy street and looked up the hill to see an image in blue staring back down. She wasn't moving. She was still in the wind. Her stagnant body was like a statue, overlooking the small town passing judgment and waiting to see who would topple.

Sam drew in a deep breath of the cool, snappy wind, but all he could taste was the iron and sulfur coated on the back of his tongue.

_Better than Mother's milk…_

He kept his eyes on her wind-ravaged form as he started up the hill. His lips twitching, his hands shaking, his stomach turning topsy-turvy for a fix he hated to admit that he craved. He tried to push it all to the side and keep in mind why he was doing this. Why he kept going on. Why it was all so goddamn important.

Kill Lilith.

He smirked as he started his first steps into the mud and the rain. His hand found the inside pocket of his jacket and he pulled out a flask, known only to him, concealing the bloody richness that he needed. He took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked dead ahead and under his breath whispered, "Don't worry, Dean. I won't forget. I'm on your side."

www

Dean was in the dark.

Normally, he embraced it. As long as it wasn't small confined spaces, but this kind of dark had a depth to it that he couldn't find his way out of. His brother was making sure of that. Sam used to be like the sun for Dean. Capturing the light in a young world where monsters and obligations stole so much from him. But since his return, Sam was more like the moon. He had a dark side that he never showed anybody.

So even in the light, Dean was in the dark. It didn't mean he had to like it or accept it. And it certainly didn't mean he couldn't fight it.

He pulled open the old heavy door of the tavern and shoved himself inside. The music was booming, there was a handful of couples dancing near the pool table and a handful more scattered around the dusty room. Smoke filled the air, peanut shells dusted the floor, and caps and bottles littered the table tops.

His eyes landed on Big Ben and Jeff talking on either sides of the dark paneled bar. Ben's stomach was pressed as far as he could go against the counter, his left hand hanging loosely on the silver handle of the wheelchair.

Dean refused to look at Ramona. He pushed himself on, edging up to the brothers. They were nestled close, their heads dipped near one another, words exchanging fast, he thought he heard his name being said. The men's hands were fidgeting and Dean followed the fussy sign language until he saw Jeff's eyes dart up.

Dean read it as plain as day. Jeff's lips mouthed, _He's right there. He's right there._ as Dean nudged behind Ben. The big man turned to him with a false smile spanned across his face.

"You're back!" he exclaimed, too loud, too animated.

Dean's eyes narrowed for a split second. He hated always being in the fucking dark.

He gave a slight nod and pretended not to notice the swing in the air. There was no point in letting on that he was suddenly alert, that the hairs of his neck were on end. That he was all too surprised to find that he was unexpectedly suspicious. Fact was, he didn't have the facts.

"Yeah," Dean was saying, "but she's still… around."

Ben scowled and he pulled away from the counter. "What do ya mean?"

"Val's not gone," Dean explained matter-of-factly. "We need to get all these people out of here and you need to close the bar down for a couple of days."

Ben considered that for a few electrical beats of Eddie Van Halen's guitar and then nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

It took unplugging the jukebox and taking away some feisty customers drinks to get them all out. Jeff stood at the open door and handed out five's and ten's to everyone and asked them to come back in a couple of days.

"We received some bad news about a family member," Jeff told them as they exited the building, bills clutched in their hands, pissed looks on their faces, not enough beer in their bellies.

Dean was back to salting up the place, wondering if they would have enough in the bags that were left over from the previous night.

"Where's Sam?" Ben asked.

Dean turned to look at him. He was standing near the wheelchair, Ramona's back was positioned towards him. Her long arms and tufts of dark hair were all that he could see.

"You need to get her out of here." Dean advised abruptly and turned away.

He heard shuffling behind him and checked over his shoulder. Jeff was teetering near his brother, their eyes on one another, their heads ticking in a non-verbal speech Dean recognized as one the brothers only understood.

"Where's Sam?" Ben asked again but this time he held a command to his voice.

Dean felt an invisible roll run the length of his shoulders and land in a throb of pain in his beaten right arm. He curved his back as he rocked on the heel of his boot to face Ben. His eyes stayed dull, his face remained firm as he planted his feet square with the rest of his body. "Sam's saving your ass."

The big guy looked puzzled, confused even. His eyes shifted to Jeff who was standing so still and quiet that he was camouflaged into the background.

"You need to get Ramona out of here," Dean repeated. He wouldn't do it again.

Ben blinked and seemed to come to his senses or give the impression that he was. His hand gripped the handle harder and he nodded. "First," he began, "I need to know-"

The lights zinged and flickered. The brothers froze in Dean's vision. In the light and in the dark. Their images burned like a negative against his lids until they were all thrown into the black.

"Aw, Christ!" Dean heard Ben bellow.

Dean's eyes flew out the large window of the tavern, catching glimpses of headstones across the street and all he could think of was one thing.

If Val was coming, where the hell was Sam?

Of course, the click of a revolver being cocked and pointed at him robbed the thought away as Dean's eyes found Ben's. Suddenly he realized he wasn't among friends anymore.

But he was still in the dark.

-TBC-

**Playlist: **_Dream On _performed by Aerosmith

_American Pie_ performed by Don McLean

_Caps and Bottles_ performed by Dropkick Murphys


	10. Misery and Gin

**Disclaimer: **See Chapter One

**A/N:** Well, we're getting through it – almost at the end. Again, I tip my hat to **MAZ101** who had more red and er's in this chapter than I think any other. When we do meet one day, I will give you a balloon. You lift me up. Oh, and I had this story written before the "Levee" episode. So any mirrored parts are just coincidences.

**Chapter Ten: Misery and Gin**

The demon blood had hit the spot.

He wasn't an addict. He wasn't. He wasn't doing it – he wasn't _using_ it – because he _wanted_ to. He did it because he _needed_ to. It was a means to an end. Simple. Black and white. It made him strong and stronger. It made him fast and faster. It made him better and best.

He wasn't an addict.

Still, the demon blood didn't just hit the spot. It turned him on. Drinking it absorbed through his stomach, into his tissues and spread into his veins. It was a warming sensation that gave him the power to do anything he put his mind to. So he came across as hardened. He came across as different. As changed. Those were just labels. They didn't _mean_ anything. He had saved more lives with this newfound use for his curse than he had ever saved before with Dean. That meant something. That was tangible. That was the reward for what was happening to him. For what he was doing to himself. For what he was becoming.

He wasn't an addict.

The blood made him feel more alive than he had ever felt before. All he asked in return was to be successful in his revenge. Let the shit hit the fan Sam Winchester style. When that finally happened, he was willing to pay the final price. His life. Lilith dead. One major badass monster wiped off the face of the earth. That was paybacks he was willing to bank on. The demon blood, the lies, the metamorphosis. That would make it all worthwhile.

He wasn't an addict. He wasn't. He was in pain. He had lost _everything_. _Everyone_. And it was his fault. He was to blame. So he found a purpose and he found a way to serve it. The thing was, he hadn't banked on his brother's return from Hell. And now that he had Dean at his side again, he couldn't help himself. The pain was still there and the taste for revenge was thick in his mouth.

But he wasn't an addict. He had just fought his affliction for so long it became his escape to everyday living until his escape became his habit.

Sam walked up the hill with hunched shoulders and a heavy heart.

It would have been faster to get up the damn thing if it hadn't been for the rain. It would have been easier if his brother was there with him. Of course, he would never admit that.

The minimal light was darkening in the rain and Sam lost his footing as he neared the gravesite. His hand clumsily fell in front of him and caught on a grassy patch, his knee bending and sinking into the mud. He felt his back pull with the motion and swore under his breath as the pain lit on fire.

Over the rain spilling down, he heard a thump nearby and his body instantly froze. Sam's fingers gripped and re-gripped the sawed-off as he carefully rolled his body up to a vertical position. Then he blinked.

The recently dug grave of Valentina Mondalvo was just up ahead, dirt loosely packed down, tombstone drenched from the falling water. Problem was, there was no Valentina.

The ghostly figure dressed so formally in blue wasn't anywhere to be seen.

Sam's upper torso turned to the left and to the right. He squinted through the gray clouds, droplets falling from his eyelashes.

"What the hell?" He asked to no one but himself.

It didn't feel right. He strained as far as he could see, looking into the air, looking for something that wasn't there.

But it was. He could feel it. The air around him was like a gel, hard to catch his breath, full of an invisible substance that he couldn't see, but that he could sense. It seemed to move with him. If Sam turned to the right, it went left. If he took a step forward, it crept behind.

He frowned. It remained still. It was waiting.

Sam sucked in a breath and, feeling a little silly, he called into the coming night, "Val?"

The air rotated in front of him. Vapors climbed and swirled into a thick of nothingness. A sharp, strained giggle echoed around him and the whim of a baby's cry chased it. Sam's eyes toggled back and forth, searching for the source. He raised the shotgun and aimed dead ahead.

The pitter-patter of small feet on wet ground splashed near him and Sam turned to his right. It sounded like it was running away from him, not towards. He circled around, trying to follow the noise, trying to focus on anything up on the damn hill.

"Val?" He called again with a shake of his head, because the last time had worked out so well.

The hairs on his neck pricked away from his skin. He didn't notice the change in temperature until he felt the weighted tug on his jacket. Sam's head whipped to his right and before he had time to react, he was on his back staring up at gray skies with yellow eyes.

-0-

_May, 1996_

Her eyes poured into him.

John shoved away from the counter of the bar and he found himself wedged in between a vegetative girl in a wheelchair and his boys. His arms spread away from his body and he pressed back in protection, secluding them from Ramona's sight.

Ben and Jeff were moving to his left. Ben was shuffling toward his daughter while Jeff hung back behind, both unable to hide the pure shock on their faces.

"Ramona?" Ben spoke softly. His hands stretched wide, like he was approaching a wild animal.

It was Ramona, though, who held John's attention. She was sitting in the shiny chair, her body rigid and her bony arms shaking as her contracted hands tightened into unyielding fists. Her head was erect, pulled away from the leather and her eyes were dark and round.

John watched as Ben bent low, trying to steal Ramona's fascination from Sam to himself. He waved a hand through her line of sight, he snapped his fingers in front of her nose. She stayed glued to what stood beyond John.

"Hey, Ramona, baby?" Ben reached up and placed two fingers aside the girl's face and pulled.

She didn't even blink. Her lips parted, dry and pink, and her jaw started moving in slow motion.

Ben silently startled at the action. He dropped his hand and scooted away, almost in terrorized awe. His chin dipped down and his head turned slightly, catching John out of his periphery. "I don't understand-"

"Truth."

Ben's eyes swung to the girl and John felt both his sons at his back, peeking over his shoulder. Jeff was grasping the counter on his left, surely it was the only thing that was keeping the man from falling to the ground.

Ramona stared straight ahead. She didn't flinch as her father touched her again, this time clutching her taut hands in his. "What is it? What truth?" he asked.

She didn't respond.

Ben rubbed one of her small fists against the stubble of his chin. "Hey, honey. I'm here. Look here." He tried again to bring her face to his, but her muscles resisted. "It's Daddy." He hitched in a breath and shifted his heavy load underneath his feet. "It's Benny. Look at me, Conchita."

There was an audible crack of cartilage as Ramona's neck cracked to the right, her tendons stretching against her tan skin. She opened her mouth and at first, only silent gasps hit the air.

Ben pulled back, cowering away from her as she lurched in short thrusts, her body quivering in the chair.

A hum started low in her throat. Her mouth gaped open as the notes hit the air, a sad lullaby rising in waves over the music punching out the jukebox. Her mouth twitched timidly into a half smile, her eyes watching her surroundings.

John took a step back, feeling his sons snug against him. Dean wobbled on one leg, most of his weight on Sam's shoulder. He felt his own energy surge down his arms, fiercely bracing his boys against any threat.

Dark eyes hooked back in John's direction and he felt Sam's breath on the back of his hairline. Thick accented words started playing in a loop around and around the passages of John's mind.

_El pequeño. _

Sam's breath was warm against his skin.

_Your boy. _

He could feel the fear there.

_He is okay?_

The power.

_Is he different?_

And the curse.

Ramona's chest unnaturally fell to her lap and she inhaled a ghastly wheeze. When it escaped her this time, the small room filled with her screams.

-0-

_March, 2009_

It certainly wasn't the first time Dean had found himself staring down the barrel of a .45. Oddly enough, he hoped it wouldn't be his last, either.

He hated being on this end of the equation. He had let his guard down and had trusted old friends when he knew damn good and well who his friends were. He hated that it was him and Sam against everyone. He hated that it all rested on his shoulders. The world's fate balanced on him. He hated it so much, he almost hated himself.

_I can't do it. It's too big._

Thank God for Sam.

_Then you guys are screwed._

Sam gave him a purpose.

_I'm not a hero._

Dean's eyes were steeled. His hands clenched at his sides and muscles bounced and bunched all over his body. He could feel his chest lurch forward in frustration, but Big Ben was no novice when it came to using guns. Right now, though, Ben's face wasn't as confident. It was swarming with emotions and actually looked more frightened than anything.

"Where's Sam?" Ben swallowed hard as the lights in the bar flickered back on and Dean caught the shake at the end of the barrel. Eyes stayed locked on one another and Dean couldn't help but crack a smile as he watched a fat bead of sweat roll down the man's temple.

"Put the gun down," Dean grit out.

That made Ben grin. "Boy, who do you think is asking the questions around here?" The .45 pointed closer to Dean's face as Ben and his stomach pressed Dean back against the wall. "Jeff, check him."

Jeff was half way out the door with Ramona. He turned and looked at his brother and then at Dean. He held a quiet inside him that was battling with the need to get his niece out of the tavern, but knowing he was instead going to park her and do as Ben asked.

Jeff turned the wheelchair so that they could see Ramona and pushed the brakes down. He flipped his long hair out of his face and hesitantly dragged himself over to the two men.

Dean stilled. His head turned away as Jeff patted him down, checking pockets, dipping his fingers into his boots until he came away with Dean's Colt and Bowie knife.

Dean's eyes landed on Ramona. First time in a long time. Her body mechanics hadn't changed much since he'd seen her last: her hands were balled, her head was tilted awkwardly back, her right foot was pulled sharply inward. Still, she looked different. Older. Grown up. Beautiful, really.

"You know," Jeff's spoke calmly as he traveled the length of Dean's body, "all you got to do is just answer him. We don't want to hurt you."

"That's all? And you won't hurt me?" Dean almost laughed as he shook his head. "Why're you suddenly so interested in my brother?"

Jeff placed Dean's weapons on a small table and slowly backed away.

Ben cocked a graying eyebrow. "Don't blame us for this. We gave you boys a shot."

Dean's smile disappeared. His eyes narrowed at the large man. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"We gave you two days." His left hand raised, flashing two chubby fingers. "You two do some half-ass salt and burn. Then what? You tear down the goddamn dividing post and burn a car?" His face screwed into a rainbow of red. "I didn't think you were amateurs."

"Well," Dean exaggerated a huff, "I've been called a lot of things-"

"So because of your incompetence, we have to finish it."

Dean tried to make sense of that, wondering if the hit he'd taken to his head yesterday was muddling him up. "And how exactly do you plan on finishing things?"

"Dean!" The door to the bar swung open hard, the wind blowing in with it. Sam's tall form raced into the tavern, skidding to a confused stop as his eyes quickly assessed the situation.

Dean's eyes widened at the sight of his brother dashing into the room. He felt his body flinch, felt words of warning stick in his throat. _Run, Sam, Run!_ But the feeling chased away just as fast when he saw Sam's right hand fly to the back of his waistband, his Glock clutched in his hand before Big Ben ever had a chance to register a thought.

"Put the gun down." It was an order. Not many people would have disregarded such a tone, but Ben did.

"Why?" He goaded. "You're not going to shoot me."

Sam rolled his head once, his shoulders squared, his aim chosen. "Let my brother go."

Ben blinked. His eyes stayed with his target, but Dean could see him wavering, questioning how well he knew Sam. What was he actually capable of? His gaze drilled into Dean, searching for the answers but Sam's brother had none to offer. He didn't know how that story ended yet.

"So what?" Ben licked his lips. "This is just gonna be a three-way stand-off? If I shoot Dean, you shoot me?"

"I'm not aiming at you, dipshit."

Dean couldn't help himself. Out of his periphery, he and Ben both stole a look over to Jeff. His hands were held up for everyone to see and he had a sick look on his face.

"You touch one hair on my brother's head," Sam continued, "and I'll put your brother down."

There was a rattle from behind them. The silver wheelchair was moving back and forth, dark hair bobbled against the headrest and started to pull away, a rigid neck taking on more weight.

Ben's eyes flickered to the sight and then straight ahead again. Dean knew there wasn't much fight left in him. "Well, what do you wanna do?" the big man asked.

Sam inched closer to the trio, his Glock steady on Jeff. "I didn't start this, man. Let Dean go and then you tell us what the hell is going on."

Dean could feel the silent fear rolling off Ben. The man had his gaze fixed but his head was racing through thoughts and scenarios, wishing he had a card to play but knowing Sam would have an Ace tucked away.

"Dean." Sam ticked his head back, gesturing his brother to walk towards him.

The .45 didn't look so intimidating anymore. Dean shifted his weight under him, testing waters and when it seemed safe enough, he started to slide to his left.

Ben blinked long and slow like he was just waking up to the nightmarish reality around him. His round, sweaty face frowned into a collection of deep lined wrinkles and without a word, the butt of the gun smacked across Dean's forehead.

His vision jammed with flashes of white and the pain tunneled from his head to his shoulder. Dean's eyebrow tweaked momentarily and his arms flailed from his sides as he attempted to keep himself from falling backwards. His hearing buzzed like a bad TV set until the deafening shot from Sam's gun silenced his ears again.

Ben's shoulders jerked and he turned around to Sam. "What the fuck?" Ben bellowed. Then he stopped and just stared, not able to bring himself to look behind him.

Sam tilted his arm and clicked the hammer back again. This time he pointed directly at Ben. A scream sounded from Ramona as the wheelchair shifted into overdrive. The woman's long body rocked the chair hard, it's wheel locked in place, taking the pressure as she fidgeted wildly.

"Sam!" Dean yelled. "What's wrong with you?"

But the look Sam threw him sent chills down Dean's spine and wasn't he getting tired of that goddamn feeling. His brother walked a tightrope these days. All it took was one slip of the foot and the world would come crashing down. Leaving Dean alone and desperate. He was getting pretty tired of that feeling, too.

"Ben."

Big Ben's head whipped to his right, his neck craning from the strain. Dean followed. Both sets of eyes landed on a very much alive Jeff Timmons, a bullet hole wedged an inch in the wall to the left of his head.

"Aw, God!" Ben exclaimed, the revolver falling effortlessly from his hand, resonating in a _clang clang_ on the wood below.

Dean scooted away from the wall, scooping up the abandoned gun and gathering up his confiscated weapons off the tabletop. He ignored the happy, almost joyful sounds that were blubbering out of the larger man. He pretended not to notice the way Jeff leaned into his older brother, hands on his shoulders, behind his back. He had already forgotten that Ben had repeated how he'd thought he'd lost Jeff and he was turning away from all of the shit when Jeff told Ben he wasn't ever going anywhere.

Dean had his own family to deal with in that bar. He slipped his Colt back between his waistband as he staggered the few steps to Sam. He tried to keep a straight, somber face as he approached him. Sam hadn't killed anyone. He had just fired a warning shot and it worked. Mission accomplished. Everyone safe and happy.

Apparently, Sam hadn't gotten the memo.

Dean brushed by Sam's shoulder and he heard a relieved sigh escape his brother. But Sam kept the hammer pulled back and the barrel steady on the joyful brothers.

"Sam?" Dean tried.

The gun stayed where it was, though, and Sam didn't look over. He just stared ahead, his eyes hot and empty. Dean wondered what exactly Sam was seeing in front of him.

"Get Ramona," Sam ordered and Dean stole a look over at the wheelchair. The sound of the gunshot must have calmed her, the chair was still again. Her dark hair was sticking up in a mess of wild tufts all around her head.

Then his gaze swung to the bartenders. They were still clinging to one another, but they had broken away from the hug. Now they were just gripping fingers into biceps and palms rubbing the back of necks.

Sam's shoulders rolled and his face winced in pain. Dean noticed a faint pinky color starting to show itself on the collar of his shirt. Dean blinked. Sam's coat covered the rest of his back so unless he could get Sam to take it off, Dean had no idea how badly his brother's blood was seeping through.

"Sam, I can take the gun," Dean offered. He placed his hand on his brother's back and pressed down gently between his shoulder blades. He could feel warmth radiating through the rain soaked coat. What he really watched was the aching constriction waving across Sam's profile. "Let me take it, man."

Sam answered with a jab of his elbow and he swallowed hard, ignoring Dean and addressing the brothers. "Sit down."

Ben and Jeff broke apart, looking first at Sam, then at the gun. Ben's hand yanked on Jeff's arm and pulled him the few steps to a small table where they sat down in unison.

The rocking started back up with the wheelchair.

"Sorry, fellas," Ben's droopy gaze fell to the table. Shame or defeat, Dean wasn't quite sure.

"What was that about?" Dean demanded. He inched closer to his brother, showing the men that the Winchesters were standing together in this. Maybe only one had a gun drawn on them but, dammit, they were in this together.

Ben and Jeff exchanged silent looks at one another following them up with a series of head ticks and eyebrow raises.

"Oh, come on!" Dean yelled. He leaned closer to the men, his palms resting on their table. "You either tell us or we make you tell us."

The brothers looked away, picking imaginary spots in the bar to stare at. Dean watched them as Ramona and her chair banged out a nice thumping pattern on the wood floor. She was making odd noises, grunts and moans but the screaming had stopped.

"It's about what it's been about for weeks now," Jeff tried to explain. "Getting rid of... you know who."

Dean pulled back. "Of Val?"

Jeff nodded. "Well, yeah."

Dean frowned. His hand came up in gesture. "But you were asking about Sam. You pulled a gun on me. How is that helping us helping you get rid of Val?"

Jeff dropped his gaze and looked over at Big Ben. The large man was closed off to the bar, his arms hugging his body, his legs smashed close together, even his stomach seemed to be more compact. If that were possible. "The night you showed up, she came to me," he mumbled.

"Came to you..." Dean's hand rolled in a get on with it motion.

Ben squirmed on the small chair. "Came to me. In a dream, I guess. Told me that she'd leave us alone if I... killed Sam." He glanced up again and tried not to look guilty, but he wasn't pulling it off very well. "But I thought I should at least give you boys a chance to get her first."

"Well, gees, guys," Dean swayed, "thanks for the head start. Next time, why don't you just shoot us in the knee caps first."

"Truth," Ramona's voice cut through the air like a blade even though it was barely a whisper. The men stilled and watched her writhe in the chair. Her body shook with rigidity, her hands clenched tighter fists. Her eyes enlarged and fell upon Sam and she leaned forward, foam gathering at the corners of her mouth. "Truth."

Sam looked at Dean and Dean looked back. He wanted to put his hand out again, wanted to give Sam some warmth, some reassurance but he was afraid that would seem weak. Instead, Dean tried to offer him a smile, but Sam looked away before it ever hit his cheeks.

"What is she talking about?" Sam demanded, the gun still held on the men at the table.

Ben lifted a hand in question. "How would I know?"

Sam shook his head. His eyes had went from hot to dangerous. "You better start talking, old man."

Big Ben seemed to let that sink in for a few seconds. He kept his gaze on Sam, watching for an out, for a tell that he was joking, but Sam didn't give up one. Ben's forehead glistened with peppered beads of sweat and he licked his lips nervously. The rhythmic drone of Ramona's voice rose and fell in the musty room. "Truth. Truth."

"Ramona!" Ben shouted. "Jesus, shut-up a minute, will ya?"

Ben's shoulders sank and his body fell forward as his air released. Almost twenty years had passed without Ramona saying anything and now she was babbling the same word over and over again and all the big guy could do was tell her to shut-up.

"Ben." Sam ordered again and his voice had lowered, no longer holding any leeway to it. It was a threatening tone that lately shook Dean to his core.

"First get me a bottle, would ya?" Ben asked, raising his droopy lids. "Let me have a drink and then, then I'll tell ya whatcha need to know."

Sam nodded and Dean walked to the bar, grabbing at the first bottle his fingers snagged, along with two glasses. He turned on his heels to return back, his eyes snapping over to Ramona. Her entire being was fixed on the back of Sam's head, her chest pulled close to her lap as she kept mumbling "Truth" over and over.

_You said it, sister_, Dean thought. She wasn't the only one who was in need of the truth being spilled until they were drowning in it.

Dean slid the bottle and the glasses over to the men and joined his brother again. Ben's hand shook as he poured the clear liquid into both glasses. He pushed one glass to Jeff and he took the other. One drink down and he wiped the back of his mouth. "Why don't you grab yourself a glass and sit with us?" He suggested to Dean. He didn't bother looking at Sam or the gun.

Dean shook his head. "No. I'm good."

Big Ben wrapped an arm around the bottle and looked back at his glass. "Then why don't you boys take off and leave me to my misery and Gin."

"Talk." Sam kept his stance and his pace, over Ben's diversions, over Ramona's voice, over the pounding of Dean's heart. Sam appeared cool. Cold.

Ben took another drink. "You know everything. You boys don't get it. I'm having a baby. I want a life with Gina. But I still have a life with Ramona and when they're together, things don't mix well. What's gonna happen when the baby comes? How am I gonna keep everybody safe? I can't lose..." His voice stopped abruptly, his droopy lids filling with tears. "Val never did like Sam."

"Why?" Sam demanded.

A shrug answered him and Sam took a step forward, causing Ramona to wail.

"I don't know," Ben insisted. "I know that she thought you smelled like Angel, like how she thought Angel smelled." Ramona's cries continued. "She thought he smelled like sulfur."

"Sulfur?" Sam backed up a step.

"Yeah," Ben went on, watching the boys. "Didn't your dad ever tell you any of that?"

Dean and Sam shared a quick glance. "Not completely," Dean supplied.

"Well, Sam and Angel had the same birthday. Sam month, day, and year. And Val always thought something had happened to Angel when he was a baby. She didn't know what it was, but she thought something had changed him. She found sulfur in his nursery. No matter how many times we washed the sheets or bathed him, she still thought she could smell sulfur. Hell, I smelled him. He smelled like a baby to me. Then she said she thought his eyes were different. Sometimes they were brown and other times she said they would flash yellow." Ben stopped talking and was waiting for one of the brothers to say something, but Dean and Sam were just staring at him. "Your daddy never told you this?"

Dean broke out of his daze and waved his arm in front of him. "Dad wasn't always the best at telling the whole picture."

Sam lowered the gun and his eyes fell to the floor. Dean leaned in, closing the gap between them. "What do you think?"

Sam was shaking his head in aggravation or anger or both.

"She was just crazy."

Dean heard the words, but he could tell by the look on Sam's face that he had felt them.

"What?" Sam growled.

"Val," Ben answered. "It was all crazy, freak-show talk." He placed two fingers to the side of his skull and slowly thumped.

Dean's arm extended in front of Sam before his brother propelled into the large man. He heard the chairs screech as both men pushed away from Sam's lurching body. "Sam! Let it go!" Dean yelled. "Let it go!"

Sam turned away from his brother and pushed his hair out of his eyes, out of his face. Dean watched his body seethe, watched his back expand as Sam gulped in enough air to fill his gills and then Dean felt his heart tense as Sam's gaze locked with Ramona.

"Truth," she chanted.

Sam's head jerked over his shoulder, air heaving from his chest. "It's not Val."

"What?" Ben and Jeff asked together.

Sam took a step towards the young woman. Dean could see his profile soften and his mouth drew up into a smile. He approached her quaking body carefully, easily, cautiously.

"It's not Val haunting the place." Sam nodded to Ramona and bent down closer to her, his knee bending in front of the wheelchair. "It's Angel."

Ramona suddenly shrieked and plummeted her body to his. Her fists untangled into long fingers and she wrapped her right hand around his nose and mouth as her left hand gripped the back of his head. Her face screwed tight as her body shook with force and her lips pushed together and firmly spoke: "Truth."

**Translations:** El pequeño: The little one.

**A/N:** Thanks so much for your words and reviews. They are greatly appreciated. Two more chapters and we'll see if the boys can lay this hunt to bed!

_Misery and Gin_ performed by Merle Haggard


	11. Barroom Heroes

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Okay, almost there – one more chapter to go after this one and hopefully our heroes will be able to save the day. And, you know, maybe each other in the process. **MAZ**, thanks for having my back on this one!

Again, any similarities in the next couple of chapters to "Levee" or "Lucifer Rising", complete coincidence.

**Chapter Eleven: Barroom Heroes**

_March, 2009_

"Sam."

He could hear them behind him.

It was easy for him to decipher, without even having the chance to turn around. Jeff had a distinct shuffle when he walked – even when he ran – and Ben's fat ass shoving off the small stool couldn't have belonged to anyone else.

"Sam."

It was Dean who he chose not to hear, though. He listened. It was Dean's voice that sunk in. His brother wasn't far from him. His low baritone was near, it was nervous, but he wasn't yelling, he was whispering. And Sam listened.

"Sam."

Even in the quiet, his ears were ringing. He could smell the peanuts and the beer and the dust around him. His back pounded in pain and he could feel the wetness stick to his skin, but it was the scrunched face glaring at him that was causing the ache to grow.

Ramona's hand was pressed in a tight seal over Sam's nose and mouth. She was sitting away from her chair, in an unnatural position with her foot turned awkwardly inward and her left hand wrenched around his head. Her lips twitched and the air escaped, the word "Truth" falling faster and faster from her tongue.

Sam reached up to the woman's arms and he laid gentle hands over hers and pulled himself free of her hold. He took in a cleansing breath and released her hands back to her lap. Instantly, they contracted into fists too tight to wiggle a finger through. Ramona's eyes stayed focused with Sam as he smiled at her and he repeated back to her, "Truth."

A silent tear fell down her sculpted cheek.

"Truth."

Sam nodded and patted her hand. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

Her head bobbed and, with effort, she raised it to see once again. Her mouth moved but no word released and in one breath her body folded in and her neck lost its battle. The leather headrest caught the weight as her dark hair fell back onto it.

"Sam."

Dean's voice was naked and Sam heard the worry and the plea. He waited a few beats, holding a secure moment with Ramona before he turned to his brother.

Then he wanted to kick himself. The concern was evident and splattered all over Dean's face. His eyes were wide, his mouth was open and his muscles were bouncing. He was staring at Sam so hard that Sam thought maybe Dean was afraid to look away. Maybe he thought if he did, he'd lose again.

"I'm okay," Sam stated calmly. He waited, watched as Dean's face drained of the worry, and then gave an understanding shrug in his direction. "She's just..." Sam's voice trailed off.

"Possessed?" Dean offered.

Sam looked over his shoulder and stared at the men gathered behind Dean. "Scared."

Dean rotated to look at Ben and Jeff and it was Winchester vs. Timmons.

A large hand clamped around an available chair and Big Ben looked like he was going to pass out. All the anger, the rising of his blood pressure, all the words spoken in vain, the worries of babies unborn and babies under ground erupted then. In a simple shake of a finger.

"You boys, you boys don't know." Ben pulled the chair out and slumped into it.

"Enlighten us." Dean snapped, his legs shifted, taking his weight evenly. He was standing in front of Sam, almost as a shield.

Ben was fumbling in his front pocket and soon his face was aglow from his lighter. He inhaled quick and blinked slow. "Don't know how to get a fucking job done."

"You son of a bitch," Dean growled and started for him.

Sam's firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. Dean's entire body tensed, his hands clenched in frustration and it took a few seconds for Sam to feel the ease. When he did, he let his grip go.

"Why don't you just tell us what exactly happened?" Sam took steps until he stood next to his brother, his eyes on the bartenders. "What happened to Angel?"

Ben's mouth puckered and his lips rolled the cigarette in a circle, ashes begging to fall off. His eyes gleamed in the bad light and a powerful fist smashed on the small table.

Sam smiled inside. He knew they'd had what they needed now. All it took was for someone to break.

"Screw it," Jeff said. He flipped his hair out of his face and sat down next to Ben. He kept his eyes low, towards his brother, his hands intertwining. "You want to be free? Dammit, Ben, if you don't tell them, I will."

Ben sat still.

"You hold it all in, you keep it buried inside." Jeff spoke to Ben, but his eyes roamed to the brothers. "You think you can keep secrets, you think you can hide truths and where's that gonna get you?"

Sam swallowed. He could have screamed then if he'd let himself. He could have thrown a chair at Jeff and his goddamn words or just sucker punch him. Either way, he deserved it. But Sam looked across the table and gave a curt nod, agreeing with Jeff, encouraging him to get his brother to talk.

"It never made any sense," Big Ben started with a sad shake of his head. "She was so excited when she had him. He was a big, big baby. Almost ten pounds, healthy, one hell of a cry, all this dark hair and I was... I was head-over heels in love with him. He was my boy. And Val was my girl. I had it all." He stopped and took a quick hit and then continued on, his voice haunting in the dead saloon. "I thought she was crazy. She said he was changed, but I didn't see it. I mean, I really didn't see it. I had seen some stuff when I was younger, but this? This just didn't make any sense. Yellow eyes and sulfur and demons and _my_ family? Fuck that."

Ben stamped out his cigarette and looked around, his droopy eyes not touching on anyone.

Dean cleared his throat. "How did Angel die?"

A gurgle chortled out of Ben's chest. He waited a minute as the smoke cleared the room and he glanced up. "He slipped in the bathtub. Got caught in the shower curtain. Drowned."

Dean was nodding. "Yeah. I heard that version. The story for the cops, for the obit. The story our dad told us." Dean paused. "Now how did Angel really die?"

Gray eyebrows lifted high onto Ben's forehead. "After Val was gone, I told your daddy it was my fault. I had… handled her poorly. I was pushy. I scared her. She grabbed Ramona and took off. It was my fault that she lost it that night. I may as well have shoved her in front of the train myself." He lit another cigarette. "John told me I had to let that go. I had to forgive myself." He took a drag. "Best advice anyone ever gave me. But I didn't take it. I couldn't take it."

Sam's eye twitched and he glanced at Ben. "Why not?"

"She killed him." Ben stated and a strange sound shrilled out of Ramona's throat.

"She used a plastic bag and just let him go in the bathtub. She said his eyes had turned yellow. They wouldn't change back and she thought he was full of evil."

A stringy breath slapped the air and Ramona's chest released short barking cries into the open area.

"Val came to the bar. She was distraught. She told me what happened and we went back and called the cops. Made up a story, stuck to it. Wasn't really that hard. No one ever even blinked an eye."

Sam stared. Val had killed her son because of what she believed. She ignored her basic instincts of who her baby was and she paid attention to what he was becoming. What he would become.

_If I can't save you, he said I'd have to kill you._

Was it love? Or was it hate? Actions guided by a mother who held a heart full of adoration for her children but what she felt wasn't what she saw. What she saw was what she feared. Sam wondered if his own mother would have had the guts to do what his father and his brother didn't. Maybe that was why she was sacrificed. She had seen with her own eyes what that Bastard had done to him. She could have stopped it all with the palm of her hand. She wouldn't have to live through years of t-ball and school plays and playing the drums and pouring all the love she had into Sam just to kill him later.

No. She could have done it then. And Sam realized that she was murdered so she wouldn't have the chance someday to do what Val had.

-0-

_May, 1996_

One more night. That's what Dad said. One more night. Then they'd be back in the Impala, driving away – far, far away – from this old tavern.

Sam had to agree. Dean wasn't well enough. Not yet and he wouldn't be tomorrow, but it would still give him one more night of rest.

The bar emptied out about an hour before and since then, Sam had turned on the light until Dean asked him to shut it off. He would, and then as soon as he thought Dean was sleeping, the light would flick on again.

"Shut off the light," Dean asked for the third time.

Sam ignored him. "Why did Ben use his name to Ramona?" He fumbled with the strings of his blanket, his eyes climbed up the bed.

Dean jostled and fidgeted, his body trying to get comfortable with his bum leg staying straight as possible. "Dad told me that Ramona wasn't Ben's daughter."

"She's not?"

Dean stopped and seemed be waiting as the bed stopped bouncing. "No. She met him after Ramona was born."

Sam thought about that for a minute. "So, Angel was his?"

A slight nod.

"And now Ben takes care of Ramona, even though he's not her real dad?"

Dean's shoulders jerked. "That's what I just said, genius. Now shut the fucking light off."

Sam stared at the switch as the seconds passed by. He could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. "I think there's something in here with us." His voice was thin and thready, like the blanket.

Dean sighed, irritated from not getting the good nights sleep he was promised. He squinted and scanned the four walls. "Shut the light off, Sam."

"But –"

"There's nothing in here." Dean waited, but Sam didn't move, letting the soft glow glare down from above. "Please," he heard Dean ask and his hand crawled up the wall and flipped the switch off.

Everything was lost in the dark. The back room was eaten up in the pitch black and Sam's eyes toggled back and forth. He thought maybe an hour had gone by, maybe two, but he really didn't know. For all he knew, it could have only been a few minutes. Nothing happened, though. Nothing presented itself. Nothing scratched. Nothing appeared.

Before Sam knew it, his breaths evened out with Dean's and his eyes opened and closed until the black swirled in hues of blue and he found himself falling peacefully to sleep. Somewhere in between scoring the winning goal of a football game and Katie McNeer's too tight cheerleading sweater running to him, Sam aroused back to the dark room. He was on his right side, shoulder dug into the wood planks and aching in need to be moved. He shuffled on the blanket, hitching his arm out from under him when he felt a tickle on the back of his neck.

He froze. _There's nothing there._ His eyes closed again and he pretended he hadn't felt anything.

Until it happened again. It felt like an ice pick against his skin, a touch so mildly hard it couldn't be real but his hair was moving and Sam prayed it was a mouse. He shoved his shoulder to the right and let his back roll to the ground. Slowly, he turned his neck a few inches, his eyes skating to the empty space under the bed.

Yellow eyes smiled back. A cold hand reached for Sam as he scuttled away, his gaze catching on chains jingling from a small neck as a voice hissed in his direction. "_El pequeño._"

Sam lost his breath. His back smacked into the wall near the bathroom and his eyes grew wide watching the small body oddly emerge from under the bed. A grotesque smile greeted him and a cool feeling crept up his leg as short fingers touched playfully.

"Sam?" he heard Dean call out. "What is that?"

Yellow eyes beamed at Sam and he felt something glow inside his gut. It was mesmerizing to look into such a bizarre, dead face and feel welcomed.

He could hear Dean shifting on the bed and knew his brother was trying to reach for the light. His name was falling out of Dean's mouth harsher and louder. Sam watched in horrific interest as the hand traveled up his abdomen and settled over his heart. Yellow eyes locked with his and suddenly Sam broke out of his daze. This was wrong, even though it seemed right. The glow from deep inside turned to warning and Sam thrust up the wall.

"Dean!" Sam yelled as he jerked involuntary and dashed to the small bed, his body scrambling next to his brother.

Dean rolled and immediately rested on his elbows. "Jesus, Sam! What the hell is that?"

The apparition had its back turned to them and was slowly starting to pivot. Sam didn't want to see the yellow eyes again. He didn't want to feel them. He shut his eyes tight and grabbed hold of his brother's arm, his nails burrowing into soft skin.

"Where'd it go?"

Sam opened his eyes and peered into the dark room. Nothing. Whatever it was, it was gone.

Dean's head turned towards him, even though neither could see the other. "What happened?"

Sam was shaking. "Please, just… let me stay here." He didn't want to explain. He didn't want to tell Dad. He didn't want to stay there any longer. "Please. Let me sleep here, Dean."

He felt Dean lower himself back to the bed. The silence seemed to last forever, but finally Dean's husky voice replied, "Okay."

Sam didn't go back to sleep that night. He didn't see anything else in the dark. And he never let go of Dean's arm.

-0-

_March, 2009_

Dean rubbed his arm. It strained from the beating it took the day before, but there was something else there that hurt. The more he rubbed at it, the worse it seemed to get.

Sam hadn't said a word for about a half hour now. They had finished salting up the bar while Ben sputtered on about his sorrys and his woes and how he didn't ever mean anyone any harm. Especially sons of John Winchester.

Dean wasn't much up for listening. He could feel the weight of Sam's silence across the room. His brother could hide all he wanted, he could put on a disguise and pretend everything was good with him. With Dean. With everything. But Sam's silence showed Dean the wounds he tried to mask.

"What're we missing?" Dean asked, sidling next to Sam.

Eyebrows lifted in his direction. Sam sighed, his shoulders dropping as his breath released. "The connection. I mean, it's Angel-"

"Wait. How do you know it's Angel?" Dean's brows bunched together.

Sam shook his head, his eyes flicking from the floor to Dean. "I think… I think I've always known it was him."

Dean held his breath. He waited on Sam. He hated the waiting. It always led him down the same silent road. He felt the heat generate in his chest again, all the months Sam kept Dean at an arm's distance and still it stung. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just think it was probably Angel who came to me when I was a kid."

"Why?"

"Because I remember his eyes."

"His eyes?" Dean swallowed hard, pushing down the want for Sam to just tell him and not play twenty questions.

"Yeah."

"What? They were small? Like a little kid's?"

Sam paused. "No." He looked away and then back again. "They were yellow."

Dean couldn't speak. He kept looking at Sam and sure as hell hoped he wasn't giving away any worry or fear. Or, God help him, concern. He tried to be as empty as possible, keep a blank stare, stay strong, but Sam's forehead was wrinkling and dammit if he'd fucking failed again.

"Okay," Dean said and when Sam turned away, he grabbed the cuff of his jacket and pulled him back. Sam glanced over, his eyes flittering under his lashes, ashamed, maybe. Dean held the gaze a few beats and nodded. "Okay. So it's Angel."

Sam sucked in his bottom lip. "Right."

"So is he controlling Val's spirit somehow?"

"I don't know." Sam blinked and gave a half-shrug. "She seems pretty real for being controlled and-"

Dean waited. "And?"

Sam's lips were pierced tight. "And I don't think Angel wanted to hurt me."

Dean kept a solid nod going. "Okay," he said again and wished he had something else to offer. Angel didn't want to hurt Sam. Val, on the other hand, wanted Sam dead. Two sides of a coin. Still, they weren't sure of the connection, how one spirit was playing off the other.

"What're you boys planning on doing now?" Ben's voice interrupted their conversation. "You gonna go up the hill and burn Angel's bones?" He took a swig from a bottle, no glass needed any longer, and lifted his droopy lids. Somehow they looked fierce against his large face. Both his dark and light sides shimmering behind his green eyes.

Dean turned in surprise, his head circled in the big man's direction. "Don't think we got another choice right now."

Ben seemed to regard Dean's statement for a moment. "And you barroom heroes think that will stop Val?"

Dean pulled in a tight breath. "We don't know. But you want your new family to be safe and you want Ramona to be with you…" his hand extended towards the dark haired woman. She was bent abnormally, head lolled, her eyes squished shut, gold chains hanging off her neck. Dean froze. A cross. A locket. A crystal. "What are those?" he asked, walking over to the wheelchair.

Ben followed with his eyes. "Necklaces. Charms."

Dean felt Sam behind him, peering curiously over his shoulder. "Is that hair?" Sam asked as Dean opened the locket. "What is that?" He asked again as Dean twirled the crystal between his fingers.

Dean's mouth quirked up. "A vial of blood."

He felt Sam's breath hot on his neck. "Blood to blood."

"What?" Dean turned and looked at Sam, but Sam was backing away, his whole body glowering toward the barkeep.

"Whose blood is that around Ramona's neck?" he snapped.

Ben lazily raised his head and lit another cigarette. He was in no hurry to help. "Angel's."

"And the hair?"

Ben smirked, his eyes taking on a dull, waxy gaze. "Angel's."

"Just Angel's?"

A drunken nod of the head. "When he died, Val put them into lockets and gave 'em to her and Ramona."

"You don't have any?" Sam continued to question as Dean pulled out a book of matches. He reached over and gently removed the contents from around Ramona's neck.

"No." The old man breathed through the smoke. "The chains and stuff were just part of her beliefs."

Dean tossed the hair into an ashtray on the small table and poured the blood over it, throwing the vial in. He struck the match against the _Keep Away From Children_ caution and dropped it in, the fire burning it away.

Sam shifted next to his brother. Dean could feel an energy building. It was an energy he felt when he knew something evil was coming. When he knew the bad guy was blowing into town and everyone had better grab their salt guns and holy water.

This time that energy was rolling off of Sam.

"What about Angel?" Sam asked. "What was hanging around his neck?"

Ben's eyes suddenly widened in realization. "Oh, shit," he stammered. He glanced to Jeff and then back to the brothers. "I forgot, I mean, we buried him. I didn't even think…."

"What is it?" Sam spat out.

"A lock of Ramona's hair. And Val's blood."

"Dammit." Sam's lips pressed together and his hands slapped at his sides.

Dean grinned at him. "Guess you found your connection."

Sam turned away, simmering.

"I'm sorry," Ben was saying. "I really just forgot. Those days after Angel died were kind of a blur and I never could make much sense outta anything. I forgot Val had put them around his…" Ben's hand opened and he made a gesture toward his throat and then stopped. "Mothers are supposed to love their kids no matter what. Kids never have to try to deserve their love. It's just given to 'em, but Val…" he shook his head. "Angel never had a chance."

Dean cringed at the words. His head tipped to the side and he felt Sam fading away. Sam was never within his reach anymore. "He had you." Dean surprised himself at his own words. "I didn't think a kid had to deserve his father's love, either."

Ben gulped. His eyes hardened and his hand made a fist again. "I loved my kids." He stared hard at the men and quietly opened his hand. "But I never had your daddy's strength. I never had his passion. That man more than loved you boys. He fought for you. Tried to make things right for you. He put himself on the line so you'd stay safe. That was more than love. And to make it doing what you guys do, one thing's for sure: love is never enough."

There was a low roll of thunder outside and Dean canted his head in Sam's direction. Sam was looking down, his eyes dark like the coming cloudy night. The rain started falling hard in a staccato rhythm against the roof above them. It started fast and picked up speed, each drop falling like the beat of a heart that was racing to explode. Then the sky would fill with blood and it would all be over with.

Sometimes, that's what Dean wished would happen. But with the end would come the end of Sam and Dean wouldn't have had the time to save him.

_I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be._

Maybe he wasn't the right person for the job. Maybe he wasn't going to stop the apocalypse. Maybe he wasn't going to stop Lilith. But, dammit, he was going to save his brother. That was something he'd die – again – for.

"Salt and burn?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

"Spades are in the trunk. I think we have just enough reserve salt. Body'll be pretty… small."

"Well, he was six, so yeah. Won't need as much salt."

They stood quiet for a moment, listening to the rain pound the earth and Dean shook his head. "Maybe this isn't our gig. You know? Maybe we've put in enough time here. Ben and Jeff… they know what needs to be done."

"No." Sam looked out the window, his chest filling and releasing the stale air. "Dad would want us to do this."

"Sure, but, you know, we kinda got the whole end of the world thing coming up."

Sam turned sharply and met Dean's eyes. "_I_ want to do this."

Dean felt his shoulder bow and wondered if the world was crippling him with its weight. "It'll be a breeze," he said with a lift of one brow and then nodded once to show Sam he meant it.

"You going up that hill tonight?" Big Ben asked.

Dean took a step closer to Sam, their arms brushing lightly. Ben's eyes had gone from blue to bloodshot and he was pushing Jeff's hand away from his bottle.

"Yeah, we are," Sam answered in a solemn voice. "Sooner it gets done-"

"Sooner you can leave," Ben interrupted.

Dean's teeth clenched. "Sooner your family will be safe."

"Fuck you." Ben pointed his finger as his voice kicked up the volume. "FUCK YOU!"

Jeff was scuttling next to him in his chair, trying to take the bottle from him, trying to hush him in soft tones, but Ben shoved off his chair and lunged across the table. "Look at 'em!" He yelled at Jeff. "Look at 'em! They act like puppets. Someone's always pulling their strings to make 'em walk, to make 'em talk. What're you boys even doing here? Don't you have somewhere better to be?"

"Ben," Jeff pleaded, "they're only here to help us. Please, just let them help us."

A meaty hand raised and Jeff balked. "I looked for you two for a month. I talked to hunters. I heard the stories." He pointed a finger at Sam. "You were dead and you," his finger swayed to Dean, "sold your soul – your everlasting soul so he could live." He dropped his hand, but his eyes stayed glued on them. "Now you're back from the beyond, you're both in the flesh. And what? What team are you playing on? Who owns you now? You're just a couple of Hell's Angels."

"Screw you, Ben," Dean's voice was tight, restrained and it took everything out of him to not go after the old guy. "You don't know anything."

"I know your daddy sold his soul, too." Ben let a grin light his face for a moment. "To a demon with yellow eyes. The same thing he was looking for clues to while he was here. The thing he seemed to fear more and more each time I saw him. But he didn't end up killing it, he ended up bargaining with it." A drunken laugh floated into the air. "He sealed a deal with that son of a bitch with a kiss."

"Ben-" Jeff warned.

"So how'd that feel? Felt so good that you went off and did the same damn thing for your brother." Ben didn't move his eyes from the boys. "You've both lost each other and you've both gotten each other back. What makes the two of you so goddamned special?" He let out an exaggerated huff. "Everybody gets to lose. Life. Love. Freedom. It all fails you in the end. And you two go and make a deal with the devil. Well, boys, when you have sympathy for the devil, you're asking for trouble. Of course, your dad never was one to set a good example on what not to do."

The heat building in Dean's chest was hot and explosive and he wanted to use it. He wanted to attack. He wanted to let all his goddamn frustration go into Big Ben's face. He didn't have the chance, though. Sam beat him to it.

The sound of glasses breaking and booze spilling crashed in Dean's ears. He felt the cold whoosh of Sam's body as he rushed the large man, his left hand extended grabbing Ben's collar, his right hand pulled back ready to swing.

"Jesus! Sam!" Jeff shouted as his long hair blew back from the force of Sam's body.

Sam was over the table and his body toppled the protruding stomach. His fist came down and Dean heard the distinct flesh on flesh cracks. His feet started moving.

Sam's body was sprawled over Ben's, his fist making contact two more times before Dean had the chance to get his hands on his shoulders. Dean started hauling him back, tried to remove him off the big guy. "Sam." Dean grit out. "Let go!" He yanked hard, his forearms straining in effort, his right shoulder feeling the hot burn from Val's slice and dice action the night before.

"You don't get to say that!" Sam yelled down into the chubby, bloody face.

Dean felt his brother's muscles soften at the words.

Sam was inches in front of Ben. His eyes were narrowed, his face was scrunched into miles of anger and sadness that Dean would never know the depth of. "You don't know my dad." Sam shook the man. "You don't know my brother." He let Ben go and shoved away. "And you don't know me." Sam stood up, stood tall, and Dean watched as he tried to catch his breath. "We're not doing this for you. We're doing this because it's the right thing to do."

Dean wasn't so sure that was the reason why they were still on the job, but he stood next to Sam and looked at the brothers like he thought it was. Like if he stared long enough, hard enough, he'd believe it, too.

"So we're gonna finish it," Sam breathed. "And if you'd rather do it yourselves, by all means-" Sam's hand extended and pointed to the door. "Now's your chance."

Ben's throat was bobbing up and down. He scootched his rear against the wood planks and sat up higher. His mouth opened and he spit out fresh blood. He lifted his droopy eyes and shook his head. "Finish it." He challenged, with the expectation the boys would fail.

Dean pushed Sam to the right. "Come on." The rain was still pouring down and darkness had settled over the hill, over the tavern.

This was going be a bitch.

They reached the old door and swung it open.

"That's what I meant, though," Ben said before they ran into the rain. "Sometimes it takes more than you even know you're giving. Love is never enough."

-TBC (one more time)-

**Translations:** El pequeño: The little one

_Barroom Hero_ performed by Dropkick Murphy


	12. Rhythm and Booze

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Last dance, people. Again, if there's any similarities in the last couple of epis and this, just a coincidence. **A side-note:** I actually had been thinking about doing a story like this after watching _AHBL#1_. I was all curled up, watching it unfold and I noticed during the part where the YED takes Sam back to his nursery in the dream sequence that right after he feeds baby Sam his blood, the baby cries, looks away to the left and his eyes briefly – and I mean briefly – flash yellow. Of course, later in _Yellow Fever_, Dean sees Sam's eyes shine yellow and it is not clear whether this actually happened or if Dean is still a bit unsteady. Anyway, I do wonder if Sam's eyes quickly flash yellow throughout the series and we just haven't caught it.

Thanks to **MAZ101**. It's strange how the Internet works. We've never met, we've only typed. I adore your words to me and I think it's cool how although I've never seen you in the flesh, I still can feel your heart. Thanks for having my back. And my front.

**Chapter Twelve: Rhythm and Booze**

_March, 2009_

The world was slanting sideways.

Sam shook his head hard and tried to ground himself. The world was _not_ slanting sideways. He just couldn't keep his vision in focus. The pain from his back traveled down his arms to his fingertips. His legs pushed up the muddy hill until the ache throbbed to his feet. Even his jaw hurt. The hill blurred again and Sam had to squeeze his eyes shut to bring it back. Still, the ground moved when he didn't.

"Sam?"

Sam looked up. He'd fallen behind. Dean was waiting for him a couple of stones ahead. Even in the dark, he could see his brother. The outline was distinct against the black. They'd been drilled to look for one another, trained to sense each other. Sam pushed harder. "Yeah?"

Dean didn't say anything. He just waited against a slab of marble until Sam caught up.

Sam didn't make eye contact, just kept his feet plowed into the mud. His head hung low and he started to shove ahead.

"Hey." Dean's voice halted him. He tried to hide the shaking in his hands. He hoped Dean couldn't hear the harsh pants his breath released into the cold air.

"What?"

There was a beat and then Dean asked, "Can we take a minute? My arm feels like it's on fire."

Sam walked the two steps back down and tried not to stumble. His eyes saw the tombstone across from Dean, flat and wide, and he hefted his rear end on top of it. Then Dean let him breathe and Sam didn't know how to thank him for that.

He could feel Dean's eyes on him and slowly raised his head to face his brother. He wasn't sure what to expect. Repulsion. Fear. Rejection. But it was too dark to really see and Sam found that looking at Dean wasn't so hard in the night.

"Are you okay?" Dean sounded tense. Sam could see his mouth moving, could see the whites of his eyes catching on lights from the town below. He knew he was scaring Dean but he wasn't sure how to reassure him anymore.

"Yeah. Sure." Sam scratched at his neck. He took in a couple of breaths and felt his body pull tight from the pain. "My back hurts a little." He dropped his hands and rotated his shoulders. "I think it's bleeding again." Sam licked his lips and tasted sweat mixed in with water. "I'm shaking. I, uh, think it's from the cold."

Dean waited. He leaned in further, his right hand resting on his knee, his left hand clamped on the handle of the shovel. His eyes found Sam's and he waited for more.

Sam's focus slid away for a few seconds and then back again. "What?"

"Are you okay?"

Sam had heard the tone before. It was a tone he obeyed and rebelled. It was a tone each of them learned from their father and Sam knew what Dean was asking. He knew what Dean wanted, what he needed.

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

He saw Dean's head drop and a lump swelled in Sam's throat. He remembered the siren before it had got to him. Dean's arm around him, knife to his throat, and the damned siren's words. Telling him, _mocking_ him that he was willing to give Dean what he truly wanted. Not a bimbo in a G-string. Not a million dollars. Not a chance at normal.

Just Sam.

And Sam knew it was true. No matter how much he denied it, the awful things he had said to his brother… he had meant them. He wouldn't admit it to his face, but he didn't think Dean had the sac anymore. Hell had weakened him, scalded a fear in him that he hadn't carried before. And if he meant the words he had spoken to Dean, then Dean must have meant the words he spoke to Sam.

"Well, let's do this." Dean's pitch had dropped and he pushed away from the marker he was resting on. He brought the spade up against his shoulder and started up the slope.

Sam watched him a few steps before he joined behind him. "Up a few rows and to the left," he said trying to be helpful but Dean answered him with a one fingered salute. Sam sighed and figured he probably deserved that one.

www

There it was. The little off-white tomb with the praying hands. It was easy to detect. The name almost glowed in the dark.

**Angel Mondalvo Timmons b. May 2, 1983 d. October 17, 1989**

Dean threw his gunnysack down and opened it up, taking out a battery-operated lantern and quickly set it up in the mud. "Get your lights," he reminded Sam as he stood, checking to be sure Sam's lantern was on and that he had his Maglite in hand.

Dean grabbed for the shovel and started to dig. Sam was walking on the other side of him laying the flashlight down and joining in the dig. It was a quiet effort. There were grunts and groans and the mud pulled on both their injuries but Dean refused to let up because of a burn to his shoulder. If Sam could do it, he could do it faster. If Sam wasn't saying anything, he could be quieter. It was childish, but he didn't care. If Sam thought he was calling the shots on this hunt, Dean was able to call him on it.

Sam's shovel was the first to scrape on something solid. He hit the surface hard enough with the spade to hear the _clunk clunk_. Dean's mouth twitched. "That didn't take too long," he muttered.

Sam cleared off the mud and dirt and Dean shifted to the back of the coffin as the cream lid was revealed. He glanced up into the sky and then slowly noticed something. "Hey, Sam, it stopped raining."

Sam's eyes glanced up. "Think it just stopped or you think something's coming?"

Dean shook his head. "Dunno. I can pull the lid open if you want to get everything ready."

Sam seemed to contemplate that for a few seconds. "Yeah, okay." He threw the shovel over the open site and reached up with his arms, grabbing hold of nothing but mud as he pulled himself out of the hole.

Dean waited until Sam was standing. He watched him reposition the lanterns closer to the opening and then his flashlight was gripped in his hand. Dean watched the halos of light illuminate the ground and Sam's feet. "See anything?" he called up.

Sam was swaying, the faint light catching on black. All Dean could see was his hair shaking a negative. "No."

Sam directed the beam down to Dean and let it hit on the lid of the casket, causing everything to light up around him. Sam nodded and Dean thought he saw him shrug. "I'm ready."

Dean sucked in a breath and reached across the lid, heaving it open. It didn't lift like an adult sized casket would. This one wasn't divided in two. It lifted in unison, exposing the entire contents of what was left of young Angel.

"Oh, God."

Dean startled, his back arched and he tried to look up the opening to where Sam was. He could see shadowy movements in the light and dark. Sam's hands were pushing through his hair and he was falling to the ground.

"Sam?" Dean called out, but he was answered in short breaths. Short breaths and heaving sounds and Dean turned as best as he could, finding his footing on the dirt wall. His hands landed on a large stick and he pulled himself over the grave until his chest hit the wet ground. He rolled his legs out and planted them into the mud. His eyes roved around the opening, landing tenderly on Sam's slumped body.

"Sam!" Dean yelled and he didn't know which was pumping faster, his heart or his feet. He rounded the gravesite and nearly slid into Sam's crumpled form. His head turned left and right, his periphery catching glimpses of light from the lanterns but there was nothing else there. No woman in blue, no small child. Nothing.

Sam's back was expanding with heavy breaths. His arms were folded stiffly around his stomach and his head was pulled almost to the ground. Dean's hands started to reach for him but he stopped.

_You're too weak._

He wasn't sure what to do.

_I'm a better hunter than you are._

He didn't know what Sam needed from him.

_Stronger. Smarter._

If he needed him at all.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sammy-"

Sam pushed forcefully off the ground and Dean found himself standing with him, his gaze staying with the back of Sam's head. Hands were pushing his hair back again and Dean could have sworn he saw Sam wipe at his eyes. He started to say something but Sam spun around and Dean forgot what it was.

"Did you see it?" Sam's voice trembled. His chin quivered and his eyes blinked wildly. Dean watched him closely. Something had scared his brother. And it wasn't a ghost.

"See what, Sam?"

Sam shifted the weight under him. His arm slowly extended and his finger pointed in the direction of the open grave.

Dean followed. "What? Angel?"

Sam nodded and looked down. There was so much wrapped in that too-tall form that reminded Dean of the days where Sam would come to him. Ask him for help. Ask him to protect. Sam didn't do that these days. He broke away. He walked away. He pushed away. But sometimes the point of a finger, without the use of words, was a plea for help. Was a request for protection.

Dean turned and walked toward the grave, his Maglite clicked on high. He felt Sam behind him, close enough that if he reached his hand out, he could grab him. He could tell him it was all okay. He was there and nothing… nothing bad was gonna happen to him as long as Dean was there.

He looked down. Angel Timmons' little body was put to sleep in a blue suit. His dark hair had been perfectly combed, parted on the side and feathered back. It had been almost twenty years since the boy had entered the ground but there were no bones. Dean was looking at a perfectly intact child. His skin looked as new as the day he died. Everything on him was immaculate. His cheeks were puffed with baby fat never lost, his hands were folded together, fingernails trimmed and polished. His lips were pencil thin and had morphed from pink to blue to black. His eyes were slit open and he was looking up to the sky. The beam from the light caught on the dead gaze. Even in the black of night, the dark eyes illuminated a yellow tinge.

Dean felt Sam's breath on the back of his neck. He flicked the light away so neither of them would have to see.

"They're yellow," Sam whispered.

Dean dipped his chin down, his eyes drifting to the dead body in the dark. He could still see the dull hue of yellow and he could feel the ripple of nausea in this pit of his stomach. "It was just the way the light hit him."

Sam was shaking his head. "No." His voice cracked. "No, it wasn't the light. It was him. It came from him. She was right." Dean heard unmistakable tears in Sam's voice and he turned toward him. "Val was right. He was… different."

Everything rushed Dean's body and mind. Dad laying a fevered Sam next to him in that crappy bed. Sam guessing song after song while Dean was laid up. Angel and Ramona playing and dancing. Val and her damned hand yanking Sam away. Ben and the booze. Jeff and his hair always in his eyes. And Dad staying. Staying and chasing yellow eyes. Never saying anything about it.

"_Why're we here?"_

"_No reason."_

Well, there was a big fucking reason why they were there. There was always a reason. Each time. There was a reason. And right now, that one reason was staring at Dean and his eyes were angry. They held a betrayal that Dean didn't understand and he wanted to make it right. He wanted all the trips to Chesterhill to mean something. To give some kind of closure. Dean wanted to be able to help Sam be okay. To not become something that even in death was still considered a freak.

The heat built inside Dean before he had a chance to register it. He took a step forward and gathered fists full of Sam's jacket. "That is not you!" He shook Sam hard and pulled him closer, their faces inches away from one other. "You hear me? He was not you!"

Sam's breathing was labored and coming too fast. Dean could see that nothing he was saying was sinking in. His brother's face pinched in pain and frustration as his whole body shook with a deep-seated hurt. Sam pulled in the opposite direction and his arms came between them severing Dean's hold.

Sam staggered backward, his feet slipping in the mud, almost taking him to the ground. Dean watched sympathetically, helpless as his eyes burned at not knowing what to do next. Sam was feral and confused, lost and fragile all tied into one dangerous knot. One pull, one scratch of Dean's fingernail and he knew he could break through the surface and make Sam bleed. The problem was, he didn't know how to stop the bleeding once it started. All his life he had slapped Band-aids on his little brother's wounds and now… well, now he had to find a new way to help Sam heal.

"We need to get this done, man." Dean looked behind his shoulder at the barren grave and then back again. "I can do it, okay? You just stay here and watch out for… anything."

Sam's lips curled. "No."

A fat drop of rain fell on Dean's head. "Christ, Sam, it's starting to rain again." He needed Sam to understand the urgency and took another step forward.

Sam backed away. "Don't. Don't touch me."

Dean stopped. His head started a small shake and his mouth quirked to the side. He counted beats in his head. "Okay." His foot moved back. "But we still gotta get this done."

Sam nodded. "I know."

"So you want to do it? I can keep look out and you can torch Eddie Munster."

He didn't mean it. It had just slipped out. It was just a cartoon word. And he didn't mean it. But there was spit in Sam's eye as he glared at Dean and his chest hitched with uneven breaths.

"Sam-"

Sam started to shove past Dean, ignoring the excuse in his voice. Dean's hand came out and grabbed at Sam's sleeve.

"Wait." Dean yanked on him. He kept his eyes pinned on Sam's and never saw his fist coming. It was packed with power, cracking into Dean's jaw and sent him sprawling to the muddy ground. He opened his eyes to the dark sky above, his brother looming over him, his body seething with rage. Dean pulled his knees up and rolled to his side. He pushed off from the muddy floor and ticked his head to his brother. "I didn't mean it," he spat. "I've been trying to help you for months, Sam. I keep coming at you at a hundred miles per hour, but if you it makes you feel any better," Dean spread his arms away from his body, "here I am."

With a grunt caught in his throat, Sam charged Dean, propelling both their bodies into the mud as the rain started falling again. Sam pounded his fist into the side of Dean's face and pulled back for another when Dean's arm came up and blocked him. He pushed at Sam but didn't take a swing. He felt his arm being pulled away by Sam's hand and his jaw took another hit, this one with less force.

"Get off me," Dean growled as he worked his arm free and pressed his palm to Sam's chest. He tried to take a breath, but ended up swallowing more water than air.

"You're wrong!" Sam panted.

The fourth hit squared him across the eye, splitting the skin and Dean could feel the slight trickle of blood. "Sonuvabitch." His vision edged between gray and black, which was funny to him because they were already surrounded by the night. It was when the flashes of light sparkled behind Dean's lids that he started to get concerned. White, not so uncommon. Red, he'd seen that one a time or two. But the yellow made him shake his head back to the present.

Dean searched the dark through his swelling eye and stinging jaw. Sam was still hovering above him, but he wasn't throwing punches anymore. His weight was bearing down through his hands, holding Dean's arms in the mud. His right shoulder sent an electric shock wave of pain to his chest and for a second, Dean thought his heart was shattering to pieces.

"I know," Dean tried, "I know. I didn't mean it!" He twisted his arms back and forth, trying to loosen Sam's grip.

"I'm not… evil."

Dean stopped moving. His throat felt like it was closing up. "I know."

He could see Sam's face shiver in the wan light. He could see his brother looking at him, their eyes fastened on one another. Dean held strong to the connection.

"M-" Sam sucked in his bottom lip.

Dean frowned. His breathing was stifled under Sam's weight and he wanted to ask what he missed, but he couldn't because Sam's eyes were terrified and that shook Dean. Of all the things they hunted, of all the angels and demons they met, it was Sam's fear – Sam's fate – that scared Dean most of all.

Sam's fingers flexed around the small of Dean's wrists. His back curved in pain and, barely audible, he sighed, "Mom."

It took Dean a slow moment to put the puzzle together. Val and Angel. Mom and Sam. Azazel's special children and their special mothers. One following a fiery path, the other following an insane one. A fucked up circle of life from the cradle to the grave. And out of all of them, Sam was the chosen one. He was always the chosen one.

"No, Sam." Dean's voice was gravelly from lack of oxygen.

But Sam was quick to ignore him. "She could of-"

"You don't know," Dean wheezed. "You don't know… what she would have done."

Sam's eyes glared. "Neither do you."

Dean felt his throat work, raw and scratchy. He shook his head, but found himself agreeing. "I know."

A sound escaped Sam's lips that could have been a laugh or a sob. Dean couldn't be sure but his arms became his again. He drew in a lungful of air as Sam pulled back and sat on his haunches, his eyes looking away from Dean's bruised face to his bloodied knuckles.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered and Dean knew he meant it. He felt the words, the timbre hit him harder than any of Sam's weedy attempts at a fight.

Dean rolled to his left and used his elbow for balance. He coughed harsh and wet and let the rain momentarily soothe his nicks and scratches. "You know, Sam, there are better ways of talking than using your fists."

Sam's jaw shook. "I'm-"

"If you say you're sorry again, I swear I'm taking you down."

"I just don't know what to say anymore."

Dean nodded. "About what?"

Sam was quiet.

"I know, Sam."

Sam's eyes lifted.

"I know you're in pain. Hell, I'm in pain." Dean hitched a shoulder and tried not to sound too casual. He needed Sam to know he counted. That his life mattered. "Everyone's in pain."

Sam pressed two fingers into his eyes sockets. Dean watched as his breaths filled Sam's lungs, his whole body taking in gulps of oxygen and water and tears.

Everyone has a breaking point.

"Doesn't mean I can't help. Doesn't mean you have to carry it all."

Dean wiped his lip with the back of his hand. It came back bloody but the rain swiftly washed it away. He blinked up at Sam and it happened so fast, he wasn't sure what it was at first.

A whirl of blue crossed their paths and Sam wasn't crouching down near him anymore. He was being dragged across the bone yard by his neck. Thick black hair was spinning in long tendrils as Val hauled his long body over small stones and mud. She stopped near the open grave and wrapped her hands around Sam's nose and mouth.

"Aw, fuck." Adrenaline kicked in and Dean started to _move_. His legs kicked forward and his right hand reached down with a flick of the wrist, grabbing the salt can. He twisted the cap off and poured white over Angel's body until the can was empty.

Val glared at him, using the only weapon she had – Sam – to gain leverage. In a heartbeat she was dragging him again, her dead fingers on his throat, not giving him a second to gasp in a breath.

Dean had the fuel in his hands and doused as much as he could over Angel. It smacked down on the cold corpse along with the rain and Dean prayed it would be enough to ignite. He pulled the matches out and plucked them from the Ziploc baggie. He could hear a gurgling sound a few feet ahead, but when he allowed himself a brief second to look, he couldn't see anything.

The match lit on the first try and he dropped it into the grave. Fire crackled under him and he let the burning body light his way. He struck another match and let it fall, this one closer to little Angel's neck. A direct hit. The gold color of the necklaces danced against the fire light.

"Mama."

Dean's eyes flittered across the cemetery. There, just a few rows away was Val, holding a death grip on Sam and behind her was the image of a little boy in blue. Dark hair, chubby cheeks, and a frigid hand extended to the ghost of his mother.

Val's head turned in his direction and her eyes softened at his sight. Her chest heaved once and the name hit the air in an accented whisper, "Ángel."

Small fingers curled in his palm, beckoning the woman to him. "Come, Mama."

Dean took a step towards the trio, watching carefully as Sam's neck was released and he was guppying in shallow breaths. Val stayed near him, though, her hands still on Sam's torso, her dark eyes following Angel as he took small steps to her.

"I'm sorry, baby," she murmured.

Angel's head nodded. "Come." He stopped within a couple of feet of Val, the hand he held out to her starting to glow with fire. "Hurry, Mama," he begged to her as the fire spread down his arm.

Val glanced down at her feet and noticed the fire that was burning underneath her. She stood up and extended her hand towards Angel's. Dean watched as fingers reached for one another, as Val's face smiled at her son. As the fire spread throughout their bodies and he knew it was going to be over with soon.

Sam rotated to his right and let his lungs fill with cold air. He groaned and opened his eyes, the images of the two ghosts coming into focus for him for the first time.

Val suddenly halted her movements, her head ruffling to Sam's squirming form. Dean watched on as her eyes darted from Angel back to Sam and in one breath her fiery leg kicked Sam in the side, sending him teetering to the rocky drop-off, his nails digging into the mud, barely keeping him on the edge. She knelt down near him, and she brought her cold lips to his ears, Dirty Bitch Red lipstick rubbing onto his lobes as she hissed, "Monstruo."

"No!" Dean screamed.

"No," Sam shook his head weakly as she pulled back, her left hand hanging on his shoulder. She smiled sweetly and reached her right hand into the burning flames that had engulfed Angel and in a horrific scream, Val lit ablaze in the night.

Her sudden absence left Sam cold and without a crutch. His body lost its fight with balance and it rolled off the side of the broken hill.

Dean was running and it was too late. He was running and Sam had already gone over. He reached the edge of the cliff on his knees. It was dark. Too dark and when he looked down into the drop-off, he couldn't see anything.

"Sam?" His eyes skimmed across the area. He couldn't see a body. He couldn't even see fingers hanging on the edge. It was just a black hole of nothingness. Dean reached back for his flashlight and he could feel his pulse throbbing on the button as he depressed it, sending a small beam of light down the rocky cavity.

Nothing.

"Sam!" Dean screamed. He crawled the perimeter and let the light guide him. The rain hit the back of his neck like icicles and he swore the temperature had dropped ten degrees. "Sam!" he called out again, hoping for an answer, a grunt, anything that gave him a sign of where Sam was. The small glow hit on a something that resembled a hand just as Dean heard his name being whispered.

Dean scurried to his right and leaned over the opening. There, about a foot down was Sam, his fingers grasping hold of a small tree root sticking out of the earth. He looked up with frantic eyes and Dean felt his heart slam into his lungs and wondered when it had stopped beating because this was why he was here. This was what it felt to be alive. This was why all of the shit they'd been put through was worth all the hassle.

"God, Sammy." Dean put the light down so it held some power in helping him see. He laid flat on his stomach and reached over the rocks to where Sam dangled. "Here," he ordered. "Take my hand."

He could see Sam's eyes staring up at his palm, calculating the distance and how much pull it was going to take from him to grab hold. "Can't," Sam puffed.

Dean scowled and pushed himself over the cliff more, his hand hanging closer. "I'm right here. Just reach up and…"

Sam's head bowed down and Dean could only see the outline of the top of this head.

"Hey!" he yelled down. "Hey, Sam! Look here!"

It felt like forever waiting on his brother. Dean's body broke out in a sweat and he felt the beat of his heart slam against his ribcage as he lay on the cold ground. He snapped a finger and slapped his palm against a rock.

Sam's head swung back up. "Dean-"

"Just reach up," Dean begged. "I'll catch you. I swear."

He could see Sam swallow and his eyes narrowed on Dean's waiting hand. He gave a slight nod and Dean involuntarily nodded back. There was no count down, just the lick of the lips and a blink of an eye as Sam thrust his body up, his right hand joining Dean's, followed quickly by his left.

Panic chased dread through Dean's veins as he felt his feet slide and slowly, his upper body started to lug over the drop-off. He pressed his toes into the mud and grabbed back with his left hand until his fingers wrapped around a small cluster of weeds. His vision blurred and ears rung, even though the only sound was the rain and Sam's gasps of exertion.

Dean blinked. He could feel Sam slipping away from his wrist, even as his brother tried to adjust his grip. Dean's shoulder pulled with strain and he felt a chatter start to beat out from his teeth.

"Dean-" Sam's voice was sharp and scared and Dean pretended not to hear it.

"I got you." He shook his head and started to pull. The muscles of his back bounced from the pressure, but his feet moved an inch and replanted in fresh mud. He could feel an aggravating tremble start tickling his cheeks and he shut his eyes and pulled back again.

Sam's hand slid down his thumb and Dean stopped. "Sam," he rasped. "H-hold on."

"Dean," Sam's voice was paper soft and just as fragile. "Please."

Dean looked down. Sam hung by the tips of his fingers. His body swayed between two large boulders and Dean could see the determination to let go behind his eyes. Dean looked beyond Sam's body into the dark. There was no way of telling how deep it was or how treacherous. He couldn't just let go. He didn't know what he'd be letting go to.

He felt Sam's grip slack and his thumb shifted out of Dean's hold. Another second. Another breath. Another heartbeat.

"No," Dean snarled. "Not in this lifetime." He released the weeds and felt his body lurch over the edge again. He quickly reached down and readjusted his grip with his brother.

"Dean." Sam's body rotated in the free air.

"Shut up, Sam." Dean dug his kneecaps into the ground as leverage. "Let me do this." He grabbed the weeds again and started to pull. Everything hurt. Everything stung. Everything lit on fire. Everything was resting on his shoulders and his entire world dangled from his hand and Dean knew right then – he knew he could do this.

"Stay…" Dean prayed as he felt Sam's body come forward. He didn't even realize it when Sam's elbow settled near his face and he didn't know when he had let go of the weeds and had his hand braided in Sam's jacket. His eyes were screwed shut and all he could do was keep pulling, keep moving back, keep his hand clutched with Sam's.

"Dean."

"Shut-up…"

"Dean."

"I got you," Dean's voice shook with emotion, tears thick and foggy and ready to release.

"I know."

Dean's eyes opened. He was on the ground again, his shoulders back in the mud and Sam was flopped on top of him, his hand clasped tightly in Dean's.

_You don't need me…_

There was a time when Sam would look up at Dean and he would see a Superhero. Dean was aware of it. Hell, he liked it. He liked the way it made him feel, big and powerful and like he could save Sam from anything. Then there were times like now. When Sam looked at Dean and he didn't see him with a child-eye wonder any longer. Those days were packed away in a suitcase and left behind in some nameless hotel room.

A stray tear melted its way down the side of Dean's face.

Sam's hand gripped his shoulder and the pain sparked down the length of his body. "Hey, Dean?"

He scrubbed a shaky hand down his face and tried to rid any evidence of the tears. "I'm okay, Sam," he lied. "Are you?" He blinked twice and waited for the sky to stop spinning.

Sam looked down at him and slowly shook his head.

Dean blinked again and waited.

Sam swallowed hard, but his eyes filled anyway. He shook his head more forcefully. "No, I'm not okay." Sam's hand released Dean's shoulder and his forehead fell forward onto his brother's chest.

Dean lay still for a few heartbeats. The rain was still coming down, but it didn't matter. He felt his face break at the sound of Sam's tearful sighs and small confession and he didn't mind the water falling down. It just blended in with his own. He threw his right hand gently over his brother's back and wondered how much damage had opened up on the surface. And vowed to be strong enough to get them through to the other side.

_It's too big... I'm not a hero…_

"I'm sorry." Sam was babbling. "I'm sorry."

"Shh." Dean hushed. His palm flattened out and he pressed it against the back of Sam's head. "It's okay. Just, don't talk."

Dean felt Sam's grip tighten on his side and in the cold and the dark, he felt briefly warm. He closed his eyes and pretended, for just that minute, that they had won.

www

Ben couldn't believe it.

It was over. He was standing in his bar with his family. Jeff, Ramona, and a very pregnant Gina. He insisted she meet the men who saved them all.

Sam and Dean were gracious. Modest. And ready to get back on the muddy road out of there. They had packed. Dean had re-patched Sam's back and had cleaned his face up, secured with a couple of butterfly bandages. When it came to his shoulder, Dean let Sam help.

Sam wouldn't admit it, but dressing Dean's shoulder, relaxed him. Made him feel important and needed. Keeping his hands busy kept his mind off the pang in his stomach. He taped the white gauze firmly to his brother's arm and sat back.

Dean pulled on a black T-shirt sporting the album cover off the Blue Oyster Cult's _Tyranny and Mutation_. Sam had picked it up for him for his birthday this year. A day he thought he'd spend drunk and angry. Instead he spent it with Dean.

"You feel okay?" Dean asked as he stood and zipped up his duffel.

Sam was broken. There wasn't enough gauze or tape or mending in the world to put him back together again. He nodded and faked a smile.

The Impala felt good. Warm and cozy. Just like home. Dean pulled out of the parking spot and shifted gears. The old tavern was alive with people. Rhythm and booze and laughter overflowed the four walls. Sam glanced inside and saw a stomach blocking part of the front window. His eyes met Ben's and the bartender stared back. He shook his head at Sam and raised an eyebrow.

Sam felt his stomach churn.

A well manicured hand landed on the big guy's shoulder and Ben turned away, smiling at Gina.

Dean steered the Chevy to the south and turned up the radio, settling his back against the leather seats. Sam watched the town speed by out the glass. The windshield wipers slapped to the time of the music. They were back where they started. Waiting on Heaven and Hell. Silence cementing between them.

_And when your back's against the wall/Just turn around and you'll see_

_I will catch you, I will catch your fall/To have a little faith in me._

"We're never going back there again," Dean suddenly said and Sam turned his head, watching Dean's shoulders square with the wheel.

"Hey, if I remember right, I suggested a motel."

Dean smiled. "Yeah. Shoulda listened." He readjusted his grip, his silver ring bouncing with the beat of the song. Sam smiled. He had missed that. He had missed it over here in the passenger's seat. Sometimes it was nice to relinquish a little power.

"Think they'll be okay?" Sam asked, his eyes scanning the landscape, the rain tattooing the earth until everything wilted or dripped.

A shrug. "Sure they will. New wife, new baby. There's other ways to get a second chance in life than waking up after being dead."

Sam nodded. Made sense. He grinned across the seat. "Ben sure turned out to a real dick."

The radio played on and Dean kept tapping. Nothing got by him. "I don't know. I think he was just scared. Got old. People change, you know? I think keeping Val's secret so close to his vest all these years just ruined him."

Sam's eyes were studying Dean. Forty years of torture and torturing and Dean's only escape was what he carried in his soul. The songs he remembered. The jokes he recalled. Breasts he had cupped. Lips he had kissed.

"But, he has Jeff. He's always been a good guy. Real even keeled, quiet. He's always been there for him. They'll be okay."

And memories. Forty years of replaying his favorite hunts. Weapons he'd held in his hands. The first time dad had told him he'd done good. Mom's prayers. And Sam. Forty years of thinking about Sam. Wondering if he were even alive. If he was okay. If he had changed into something Dean had fought so hard for him not to.

Sam's stomach twisted and he turned to look out the window, willing the craving to pass.

They were curving around the old hill. His eyes snagged on the drop-off and caught the two boulders he had dangled between just a half a day before. He followed it down to the rocky bed below. There would have been no way he would have survived that fall.

"You know what I don't get, though?" Dean asked.

Saw swallowed, acid burned down this throat. "What?"

"What was up with the touch? Every time you touched me, or whatever, why did the spirits always go away?"

Forty years apart and Dean still knew him better than anyone. He remembered things Sam had forgotten. He put his life on the line because he believed Sam was worth it. And no one, _no one_, had ever believed in Sam as much as Dean.

He licked his lips nervously and felt the heavy weight of the silver flask press against his ribs. He'd need a drink when they stopped next. He needed to steady the wiggle that was building in his pinky. He shut his eyes and saw Ruby on the other side, small and dark. Her black gaze holding a smile that allowed Sam the ability to make dreams come true.

"Hey." Dean's hand was on his knee and Sam's eyes flew open. "You sure you're okay?"

Sam pushed himself up higher in the seat. "Yeah. I was just thinking about what you said."

Dean's hand stayed and Sam's pinky stopped twitching. He swallowed and everything reached his stomach without a hitch. "I just think maybe they knew."

Dean frowned. "Knew what?"

Sam watched as Dean retracted his hand and his world dizzied again. He felt his eyes burn with tears that had been building for a lifetime. He blinked past them, pushing them to the side and glanced at Dean.

"Sammy?" Dean's eyes were darting between the road and the seat. He was nervous, Sam could tell, but mostly he was hopeful.

"I think they knew that I was stronger with family."

A sigh was released and Dean shook his head. "Oh," he breathed. The music suddenly didn't seem to be a filler anymore. And the silence didn't seem to be cement. Sam heard Dean's neck crack in his direction. "You know… me, too, Sam."

Sam nodded and shut his eyes again. This time he just tried to see Dean. Not who he was before Hell. Neither one of them were those people anymore. He shifted, trying to find a comfortable spot for his back and kept his eyes closed. Behind his lids Dean started to walk away. Then he stopped and Sam knew he was waiting on him. Sometimes having a brother was better than a superhero.

"Look at that."

Sam's eyes slit open. Out the windshield, a sign zipped by reminding them to _Come Again to Chesterhill. _

And then the rain stopped.

**Translations:** Monstruo: Monster

**Playlist:** _Have a Little Faith in Me_ performed by Joe Cocker

_Rhythm and Booze_ performed by Corky Jones

**A/N:** (last one) Thanks again for all those who have left a review (especially my regulars), who've favorite'd the story and who've alerted to it. It's been a fun ride. It's cool the way a TV show can bond people. I've never experience that before and I find it to be pretty damn special.


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